Shades of Gray
by Ageless Drake
Summary: It took me a great, long stretch of time before my sluggish brain registered: me. He’s talking about him and Trowa and me. Winner of KumoriCon '06, Best Novella Adult!
1. Prologue

_Yet you have gone on living_

_Living and partly living . . ._

_Men will not hate you_

_Enough to defame you or execrate you_

_But pondering the qualities that you lacked_

_Will only try to find the historical fact . . ._

_The last temptation is the greatest treason:_

_To do the right deed for the wrong reason._

_—excerpt T. S. Eliot's "Murder in a Cathedral"_

**Prologue**

_"Why?"_

_It is a simple question, but he finds he doesn't know the answer to it. Instead, he keeps packing, until the single word is spoken again, harsher, than repeated in every language they mutually know until he explodes._

_"Because I have to!"_

_"Why?"_

_"That's not a question, and you know it. I refuse to answer. Be more specific."_

_Three suitcases are already filled. He knows that he will loose at least one of them, because that is just how he is. Preferably, it will be the luggage that will do nothing to aid him when he reached his destination, wherever that may be in the end._

_"Where will you go?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Space? Or are you staying on Earth—?"_

_"I. Don't. Know." His words are angry now, and he hates to be this harsh with the man—the youth—the _boy_ standing beside him, because he knows that he loves that boy, even if love is a weakness, and he's sworn it off for that cause alone._

_A hand on his shoulder. One on his cheek. Lips on his. He shoves the other away, scowling, upset that he let this happen. There are tears, demands that go unvoiced. He finishes with that suitcase, and moves on to a new one._

_"Why are you leaving me?"_

_"Because I have to. You've made me weak."_

_"I made you strong; you told me that." He growls. He curses and fumes and none of it comes out because that would only be admitting the vice he let himself have; and what a vice to have fallen to, he chastises himself, staring at his hands as they shake, clenched tightly in the fabric of a T-shirt that isn't his, a T-shirt which he took selfishly. He can remember that silly conversation as well—how they laughed at themselves and each other, and he complained of their size differences._

_The shirt joins its brethren in this new suitcase._

_"Wu Fei—."_

_"I'm changing my name too. What do you think of Louis Wu?" Silence for a moment, and a forced laugh. A hand on his neck, telling him that he can't be serious, that he can't seriously be considering leaving. Not again. Not today, not this time. But he is._

_"Are you going to live for hundreds of years then?" He nods._

_"And travel to the Ringworld with a crazy puppeteer." A sigh, a sniffle, and the hand on his neck disappears. But the voice doesn't._

_"Can I be Teela then? Prill?"_

_"I don't like women."_

_"Louis does." Eyes meet, and the joke has been had. There is honesty and sincerity there, and it hurts him to see those eyes so pained. But that would be admitting to the weakness his heart has become, and that would not be honorable._

_He slaps the cheek presented to him playfully, and huffs a bit._

_"Help me to my cab."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because you'll see me again."

* * *

_

I could hear, if I listened hard enough, the sound of roosters crowing from tin roofs around the village. Sharp and shrill and far too early for my tastes, but I didn't have to listen. It was an easy stretch to the open window, and shutting it would mean the sounds of the waking world would fall completely away for perhaps an hour or two. At least until the proprietor of the rest-home came and woke me. But shutting the window would wake me; and if not that, then the growing heat would. I didn't wish to wake up, and I wasn't listening hard enough to hear the damn birds yet, anyway.

As I lay, half awake in the already stifling rural heat, I wondered how long it had been. Time was lethargic in this area, like honey that had sat in the refrigerator long enough to become highly viscous, but not quite a complete lump. That was the wrong analogy; time was just different here than it had been in space; and sometimes it seemed like the village was caught in a time capsule that displaced it to the mid-nineteen hundreds, or perhaps early. I hadn't really thought much of that, until now.

If I woke up now, I could help the proprietor's daughter in town. She was a sweet girl, though that always grated on my nerves, and not terribly bright, but her face and bright eyes reminded me imploringly of my wife, and that in turn reminded me why I was here: some ill-begotten idea of forgiveness and guilt that had driven me from the Preventers.

Here, where the girls reminded me of my wife, and the elders reminded me of my destroyed colony, it seemed the wars had never touched. As if the village and surrounding countryside for several hundred kilometers had been frozen after the Chinese Communist movement. Time was . . . _off_, I supposed. But it was a good lethargy that had captured it. That had captured me.

If I woke up now, I could read another chapter or two of my book before the proprietor asked me to get up, asked if I would be staying another week in his tiny attic room, where the breeze barely filtered in the morning, and the rooster crows were the loudest as the sun breached the horizon.

I shut the window, and tried to reclaim my dream. It had been pleasant. Warm and soft and gentle, though I hated to admit it, even to myself, whilst waking from it. I didn't want to remember the dreams I had, I supposed. And that was logical and honorable enough; what warrior wanted to remember nightmares? But then, what warrior admitted to them in the first place? No, I could never do that, never admit that I often found comfort in another's arms simply to drive away the demons of my past. That was not honorable. And if I was not honorable, then what was I?

The room was already a good ten degrees warmer than it had been. Was it really that hot already? I threw off the blankets covering my nude frame without really comprehending what I was doing, still lost in trying to redeem the dream I'd been having before the roosters had decided to pull me from my slumber.

It couldn't be that hot, I decided; it was only March, if I remembered right. But then, with time moving the way it tended to in the sleepy little village I'd emigrated to, it could very well have been summer already. That wouldn't surprise me much, I realized. And besides: if it were March, I'd be in Beijing, not this tiny little town; I'd be away at college.

I woke a bit more at the soft knock on my door. The proprietor never knocked softly. Normally, he'd slam his fist on the door a couple times until I threw the door open and cursed the old man; we would exchange coarse morning pleasantries; I would dress, and go into town to do whatever work I could. But this soft knocking; I turned my head and watched the door slowly open, watched the proprietor's daughter walk in and stare at my slightly upturned face and barely opened eyes.

I was aware of my nudity, and only turned away quietly when she muttered an apology. As her perambulating regrets continued, I sighed, told her to leave me alone, and turned onto my stomach, hopefully saving myself from the wrath that her father would no doubt bestow if she didn't shut the door and simply turn around and forget what she'd seen.

It was discomforting, to put it lightly, the idea that she would be staring at my body at all. After nearly four years with little privacy concerning my body, I'd given up hopes of retaining that privacy—the Preventers hadn't been as bad as some things which had happened during the wars, but my privacy had been violated enough that I didn't even protect it any longer, just the same. Until I'd come to the village, I'd never really had to worry about modesty concerning my body; I'd been around men and other boys for most of my life.

My eyes sliding shut, I could see the almost appreciative blush that had adorned the girl's cheeks. It made me snarl venomously into my pillow, and curse the girl for opening my door before I'd consented to it.

My wife had given me that look. Once, and only once. On our wedding night. I had been unsure—we both had—and well aware that her family was listening in on the other side of the door, making sure I made use of our first night completely 'alone' together. She had lain on the bed, naked and a stark, wonderful contrast to the woman—the girl—who had so defiled my family's honor that earlier afternoon; and she had blushed darkly as I had stood beside the bed, staring at her unsurely—it wasn't so much the sex I was unsure of, because my father had explained that to me, but it was my body's reaction to her.

I'd never slept with her again. Not with any woman. She had cried too hard when I had left the bed; and it had sickened me.

But that was at least six years spent now. Slowly, I pushed myself erect, and set about dressing, despite that fact that I was still very much asleep on the inside. My body pleaded with me for more rest, but the heat of the kitchen beneath my room and the general torridness of the late morning was making my rented attic room nigh on unbearable. If I didn't leave now, I'd cook in my own meandering thoughts, and likely never leave the room again; it was not such a regretful thought.

While the sight of the proprietor's daughter's blush danced behind my eyelids, and the thought of my wife's wedding night tears plagued my mind, my feet carried me down the stairs to the small sitting room where the proprietor sat with his two sons and meek, stupid daughter. The smell of fish and rice and vegetables wafted from the kitchen where the proprietor's wife and mother cooked swiftly, moving with an effortless grace that brought more memories to me than I carried to note.

The proprietor spoke of simple morning things from the village with his sons, and deigned not to acknowledge me until the news turned to something that seemed right to tell. A strange man wandering the village, asking about for a youth named Chang Wu Fei.

I didn't even flinch, didn't so much as shift my body weight. I asked what the man looked like, and drank my tea as the proprietor described the man—tall, lean, appraising. Caucasian, with an untrustworthy face.

The rice and vegetables were bland, and the fish was overcooked. I ate until I was full, excused myself from the meal, and left the house without a word.

If I listened just hard enough, I could hear the echoes of gunfire from his past.

* * *

Five years ago, if you had told me I would be working in a factory on my nineteenth birthday, I would have said you were mad. Then again, five years ago on my birthday, I probably would have shot most people who approached me; but then, retrospect was always twenty-twenty. 

However, I was grateful for the sharp cadence that the factory worked at, the swift pace and hard labor entailed in the job description. Though I didn't know why I had the job—my tuition at Beijing University was paid for all four years of his doctorate, upfront and with a few rather generous scholarships here and there—it kept my mind busy over the summer, when the only other choice was to stay in Beijing.

China, though no longer a Communist state, was still an ideological haven, and a powerfully known Socialist community, even if the socialism was a bit off some times. I, having grown up in the L5 cluster, was used to the idea that no matter who you were or where you were from, you were all treated equally—an ideal that democracy had tried and failed at, but the Socialists had perfected. It helped in my transition from war to the world of peace, I supposed then, that I had seen the workings of such a society. But China was different from my colony, if only in the language barrier and size.

It amused me, on some levels, that even after nineteen years of life, I still only spoke the basest Mandarin and Cantonese, and most of it was curse words I'd picked up from fellow factory workers. The L5 cluster, though populated mostly by Indo- and Sino-Chinese Asians, had created it's own dialect that was not quite any terrestrial language; and that was common and accepted among the Spacers and the Terrestrials, so that when I began to mutter strings of curse words that nobody else understood, I could just shrug it off with a casual admission that I'd been speaking Spacer.

Now, my odd mixture of Spacer and Mandarin was coming full force; the machine in front of me had stopped abruptly, halting the entire lineup. Heckling catcalls rang through the factory at me, and I ignored them studiously, crawling under the machine to try and figure out what the hell had gone wrong with the thing.

I couldn't wait until summer was over, and I was back in Beijing.


	2. Chapter One

'_Tis a common proof_

_That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,_

_Where to the climber-upward turns his face;_

_But when he once attains the upmost round,_

_He then unto the ladder turns his back,_

_Looks to the clouds, scourning the base degrees_

_By which he did ascend._

_—Shakespeare's "Julius Caesar" II.i_

**Chapter One**

_They try to stay quiet, but they know it's pointless, so they at least hope that the others have stayed out long enough for them to finish today. It won't go over well, even if it were just Quatre to come home; he can't keep a secret for his life. It's amazing he lived through the war._

_But they do not speak of such things. They do not speak, though they are vocal. An oddity; they are so quiet in their normal lives, but here, where normalcy is measured in the length of our tryst, they are as boisterous as Duo is._

_He is never mentioned. Never. It would bring reality in on their little fantasy. On their remembrance. On their mourning._

_There will be questions, like always. But their respective partners are rough enough to warrant an explanation to Quatre. And they have their share of tumbles in the line of work and life, him more than the man above him._

_His breath comes in bursts, fast and hot against him lover's neck as sweat drips from brown hair to fall onto his own perspiring face, mixing, mingling. Their bodies, their breaths, their fluids. If there was blood, he is sure that would combine between them as well._

_This is normalcy._

_This is fantasy._

_This is them._

_He hears the front door first, but it is a detached realization that they could be in trouble. All he does is smile up at his lover, run his hands through brown hair, moan too loudly; his lover's lips are on him, his fingers skating over his body, trying to touch him as much as possible, trying to disappear beneath his skin._

_The door to his room is louder. He looks over his lover's shoulder, and meets accusing blue eyes, half shrouded by a comfortable looking, off-white PLU__ sweatshirt hood. His eyes focus for a moment, and then he is lost._

_He never did find out what Duo said.

* * *

_

Beijing, like the rural town where I had spent my summer yet again, was exactly how I remembered. The streets and people bustled and brimmed with a barely contained energy which was something just short of contagious—I managed to avoid most of the excitement. The university, as I had remembered, was filled to the gills with students of every nationality, and some interesting mixes between them. The halls echoed with Far Eastern dialects, Spacers' heavy accents, and most any Eurasian language I could think of. It felt far more like home than anything the Preventers had ever offered; even more like home than the little village that time never seemed to touch.

I was slightly amazed by how much Beijing University reminded me of some bizarre cross of Star Wars, Star Trek and the _Known Space_ Terrestrials. Shades of skin otherwise unnatural in nature dazzled my eyes at every corner; not to mention the unusual coloration of hair and eyes that, even from a distance, seemed to blind.

My roommate—named simply Brin, as far as I knew or cared to know—was one such being that didn't seem to quite belong on Earth, or even the colonies. Short hair was an iridescent green which matched the eyes, and glimmered from skin so dark that could only be called midnight. Sometimes, I thought I could see stars speckled across the skin of the other young man's back.

It was new trend, I knew, though I wanted no part in it. Gene splicing had been common for fetuses for several generations, but it was our generation that was privy to the examples of post-pubescent resequencing. I myself had undergone only minor alterations before birth—reassurance for my parents that nothing would go wrong, and eventually the good luck to the scientists which had built the Gundams—and never saw the need to change such trivial surface matters as skin or hair or eye color.

Though it struck me an interesting way to test the fealty of a partner. But that was a foolish thought, and one that I never really dwelled on. The sight of these oddly tinted persons, I knew, would become commonplace, and I would eventually adapt to it. Just like everything else that was thrown his way.

"God damn, Zhang, don't you ever _not_ study?"

The sharp words from my roommate made me look up and over at him. His brilliantly glow-in-the-dark eyes peered at me from behind the shirt he was shrugging into; I looked down at the book in my hands, and frowned slightly, removing my reading glasses.

"I'm _not_ studying; it's for recreation—."

"Only you and the Lit. geeks, An, would read a book for _fun_." The use of the name I'd taken upon entering China made me shiver a little, more than hearing my old name in the village. I glared up at Brin accusingly, and folded my legs up under myself.

"What would you like me to do, Brin? Are you asking me out or something?" The green haired college student leered slightly, and reached over to chuck my chin, chuckling when his hand was venomously swatted away; his eyes twinkled merrily, seemingly of their own internal light.

"I'd love to, babe, but I'd be depriving the sweet girls of the campus and beyond of my lovely company."

"And we wouldn't want to do that." A sharp eye-roll. Brin laughed brilliantly, and leaned down, pecking a kiss to the side of one dark coffee eye, ruffling short black hair.

"I knew you'd understand, An. But, no, you should come out with us sometime. Lingyei and a couple of her friends, they always have somebody with them to dance with." Brin, with his back turned, didn't catch the slight flush on my cheeks, and by the time he turned, it was gone.

"I don't care much for Miss Juan's choose of friends." Brin looked back at me incredulously, than laughed, leaning against the foot board of my bed, crossing his arms over his tight black shirt.

"Are the rumors true then? Should I be worrying for my ass cherry, Zhang?"

"I doubt you, my friend, still retain your _ass cherry_, as you so crudely put it," was the sharp retort, aided with a withering glare that made Brin shift slightly, muttering to himself. "And besides: the hair's a bit of a turn off."

"You don't like it?"

It was some time before Brin actually left with Juan Lingyei and her various, nefariously loose-legged friends that he seemed so content with. Idly, I ran a hand through my short hair, and replaced my glasses, content in my placid nature to curl around my book and read until I fell asleep; a scholar once more.

My classes were easy, but a decent time filler, I supposed. When I wasn't in them, I was reading, or wandering the campus gardens without a care or thought as to the rest of the world. It was an easy enough life, I supposed, if not the most stimulating I'd ever existed in.

Of course, two years of warfare could do that to a man. As I drifted to sleep that night, I tried not to think of that, tried to drift so firmly into deep sleep that dreams would even refuse to plague me. It wouldn't do to have a nightmare if Brin came back any time during the night.

* * *

For me, 'mail day' was every other day, simply because that was when I didn't have morning classes. It was more for the ritualistic tendencies I'd always had, then actually checking for mail; I rarely got any, and when I did, it was normally some short, concise letter from the proprietor of the house I stayed at during the summer, asking for backed payments on the attic flat; it was one of the various young men I had become casual friends with at the factory. 

Brin was always laughing at me, saying those letters _must_ have been from a secret admirer. I would just roll my eyes, and ignore him, generally in place of working slowly through a good book, or going for a walk in the gardens.

So it came as a bit of a surprise to go down to the mail room one Thursday late morning, yawning and rubbing the back of his head—somehow, the night before, Brin had convinced me to come along to a local club; I'd gone to bed fairly early in the morning, and was still horrendously tired—to hear words I'd never thought to hear.

"Package for you, Zhang."

I blinked dully at the mail girl for a moment as she dug behind her counter, and pulled up a brown cardboard box about the size of my head. With an absent word of thanks, I grabbed it, hugged it tightly to my chest, and scurried back to my dorm, suddenly very much awake. As I walked, I scanned the package for a return address; there was none.

So fixated with the odd arrival, I never noticed the college student stepping in front of me. With a curse, I collided with a firm torso, and went stumbling backwards, jarring my tail bone as I fell and sending my package sprawling to the side. I glared up at the other person . . .

And my angry words died instantly as I blinked. The young man there stared at me a moment, seeming to try and puzzle out something. Then, he gasped, his eyes widening slightly.

"Wu Fei—."

I grabbed my package and ran.

* * *

"An, you've been sitting at that goddamn computer for three hours! What the hell's so interesting, anyway? You're not looking at porn, are you—?" 

"Go away, Brin," I ordered brusquely, pushing the other young man firmly away without looking up, scanning the list of new transfers. There had to be the name there—a variation on it—an alias I'd seen during the war—_anything_ to prove that I wasn't completely delusional.

But maybe I was. No; this was too much of a coincidence. A Caucasian man wandering a rural village, and now . . . now this.

I darted a glance to the yet unopened package on my bed, and frowned slightly. Another puzzle piece? Were they trying to find me? Studiously, I scanned the names, trying for any hint that this wasn't just some elaborate bad joke towards him.

There. There it was. Glaring at me venomously, a name I recognized, a mangled corpse of memories and lies all jumbled together into the personae of a man I had not thought to see in nearly a year and a half's time.

I looked over at the box again, and shut off the computer without looking at it. Brin was saying something to me—asking if I was all right, I realized belatedly, through a haze of wonder and worry—but was easily ignored.

The tape broke easily enough under my prying. The flaps pulled away to reveal packing peanuts, a couple of sheets of paper sitting placidly atop them. For a moment, I stared at the papers, at the packing peanuts, at the box, before shutting it with a mild curse, and shoving the entire affair under my bed.

It took me a moment before I good raise my eyes and actually look at Brin. By then, the green haired youth was sitting on his own bed, leaning forward and looking expectantly at me.

"Wanna talk about it?" I shook my head. Brin sighed, but continued his soft questions: "An ex, bad breakup? Or just somebody you _really_ don't want to remember?"

"Both," I murmured swiftly, then rethought it, and shook my head, cradling it in my hands. "Neither."

"That's not much of an answer, An. Who's this person you're freaking out over?" I shook my head again. Brin huffed an annoyed breath, looked down at where he could see the package just peaking out from under the bed, and smiled a little sadly.

"Come on," he began slowly, standing and offering a hand to me. For a moment, I only stared at him, before I allowed myself to be hauled to my feet; Brin smiled. "We'll hit the town, forget about this for a while. What d'ya say? Just you and me, no ladies tonight."

"Are you asking me out, or something?" Brin grinned dashingly, and slung his arm over my shoulders.

"For you, Zhang? Right now, I'd do just about anything you'd want."

* * *

_"Hey, Fei. Come see. The fireworks are starting!"_

_Wu Fei stands slowly, and approaches the balcony door. Duo and Trowa are already out there, smiling at the striking display of colorful explosions over the Puget Sound; Trowa's arm is wrapped around Duo's waist securely, holding him close as they watched the fireworks._

_Heero and Quatre are in the kitchen, watching the display as they wash dishes. They speak in hushed tones, laugh at each others jokes slightly. Wu Fei worries his lip, and feels lonely, though he's never begrudged them our friendship, nor his own solitude._

_The fireworks are beautiful though. Wu Fei steps out onto the balcony, and leans against the railing beside Duo._

_"How old is the country now?" he asks absently. Duo makes a little face, and shrugs, before proclaiming the country is simply _Old_ now, without a real date attached to it to gauge his perception of age. That's all right though, Wu Fei supposes. It doesn't really matter now._

_He starts a little when there are warm arms around his waist, but he doesn't turn or react more than that; he doesn't even bother to acknowledge the embrace, more than to lean slightly into it._

_He knows why he doesn't react that much, and it makes him guilty and a little more lonely than he was before. It makes him feel weak and pitiful; he wants to cry, but can't—not because it would be the weak thing to do, but because everyone else would notice if he started to cry. He would notice if he started to cry, and that could lead to questions, which would lead to revelations, which would undoubtedly end in a fight—be it physical or verbal._

_Duo is softly humming the national anthem, occasionally singing the words. His voice is good, if not the best—he's a little off pitch, but not enough to be unpleasant. Soon, Trowa is singing it too, his voice deeper, more melodic. Wu Fei shivers, and watches the display, wrapped in Heero's arms comfortably, nearly content for a moment._

_He somehow fears what tomorrow might bring.

* * *

_

The news talked about stupid things the next morning, loud even over the quiet burble of male voices in the lounge of the dorm building. Most of them spoke some variation of English and it's various dialects, or Spacer, or some Chinese language. Occasional, I could pick out French, Italian, Portuguese. It was just as slow in the morning as the entire summer had seen.

Brin touched my arm absently throughout the rest of the day, whenever we saw each other. It was something reassuring, something tangible and understanding from the other young man, and I tried not to begrudge it. It still unsettled me slightly, but I allowed.

It unsettled me more to think that I was being watched, that they had found me. When I got back to my room after lunch, content to know I didn't have afternoon classes for the semester, I sighed, and dropped my book-laden pack to at the end of my bed. The box, still tucked away, glared menacingly at me from under the sheets. I glared back at it accusingly, unable to think of something clever to say.

I wondered if I'd gone mad when I pulled it out from under the bed, set in on the mattress, and sat, staring at it sullenly. Finally, I spoke.

"I don't know what you want," I mumbled angrily, "but you're not going to get it."

A knock on my door made me look up. Slowly, I stood; it wasn't Brin, obviously, and probably wasn't Juan Lingyei either—she had a tendency to simply walk in and start flirting with me, or Brin, if he was in. My hand faltered on the doorknob a moment, before I twisted, and opened the door.

I shoved against it when I saw who was on the other side, overpowering the stunned guest fast enough to slam the door shut and lock it.

"Go away!" I snarled, still leaning against the door. There was a subtle jiggle of the knob, and then a couple of firm knocks. I repeated my order, louder, more forcefully than before, slapping my own hand against the faux-wood of the door.

"Wu Fei, please open the door—."

"You've got the wrong guy. I don't know anybody named _Wu Fei_." There was a harder knock—no, a punch. I suddenly wanted to sob, but found that I couldn't, just kept leaning against the door, hoping the other man would simply go away. That he'd leave.

I heard Brin's voice, and snarled silently to myself, giving up on the door. They were talking; Brin had a key, and was a nice enough guy. My ploy to stay far enough away from my pursuer had failed, finally. Sullenly, I sat on the bed, and glared at the box, snarling that this entire situation was most assuredly _its_ fault.

The lock snicked away from home, and the door opened slowly. Brin ducked his head in, and slid into the room, barely opening the door, promising a moment for the other man before shutting the door again. He walked slowly over to my bedside, and sat down, taking my hand.

"Is that—?" I nodded. Brin sighed, and worried his lip a moment. "Do you really not want to see him? What'd he do, that's so bad?"

"It's nothing." My hands clenched into fists behind the cross of my legs. I lowered my head, felt myself flush in shame. "I'm being stupid . . . being _weak_."

"Some people will do that to you."

He opened the door for our guest.

* * *

Pacific Lutheran University, located in Parkland, a suburb of Tacoma, Washington 

Wu Fei, after leaving the Preventers, took the name Zhang An. Zhang, being a variation of _chang_, means seal; as an alternative spelling of _zheng_, it means solemn. An means peace.


	3. Chapter Two

_Do not go gentle into that good night,_

_Old age should burn and rave close to day;_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light . . ._

_And you, my father, there on the sad height,_

_Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._

_—excerpt Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"_

**Chapter Two**

_"What are you reading?"_

_He looks up, surprised by the sudden intrusion on his personal time, though he shouldn't be. They've come back, as they always do, looking flushed from the cold wind outside and all together too happy. He has ice cream smeared on his chin, and is wearing the warm and comfortable Pacific Lutheran sweatshirt that Trowa got a year earlier, when he enrolled into the centuries old university._

_"A book. Something you would never pick up."_

_"Ah, you're mean, Fei! I read books—."_

_"Short stories and Winner's romance novella don't count as books, Maxwell."_

_He seems put out by this, and sulks just a bit at the sharp interruption. But, nonetheless, he moves towards the couch, and lifts the book a bit so he can see the cover; and he smiles a little, his eyes darting up and glimmering with a quiet joy._

_With a surprised huff, he realizes he's been outdone this time, which puts him off. Duo Maxwell has read this book before him, knows how it ends, knows what's going on, and why that's important later on. He huffs again, and focuses on the page once again._

_"We brought some ice cream back, if you're interested?"_

_"No. Thank you." It comes out more gruff than he means it, and he hears Duo sigh, and finally leave the room. For that, he is grateful, though he does feel a little bad for being so brash to the other young man—were it not for the others, he would likely be in a jail right then, if not already dead._

_"I take it Duo said something you didn't like?"_

_"It's not like that." The words come out a bit slurred. There is a hand on his neck, his collarbone, up to his cheek. He sighs, and hates this weakness as he loves it, nestling into the warmth that is being offered, simply because it's being offered to him, and nobody else._

_He isn't quite sure why he agreed to live with the others. Three out of seven days of the week, he works at Preventers' Washington based HQ, but for the other four days, he is simply at home, avoiding the peace-evolved world around him through the eyes of a man who has seen too much in too short a time. He isn't quite sure why he agreed to stay with them, when he isn't commissioned enough to cover his own food, let alone his own rent for at least three months out the year, unless he goes digging through bank accounts made fat by the war._

_But, nonetheless, there he sits, comfortable on a couch that is not his own, content for a moment that he is not in danger, but is in the company of people he—dare he—calls friends._

_"What are you reading?"_

_"_Ringworld_, by an author named Larry Niven."_

_"Oh. Before-colony stuff then?" He nods. That is an understatement, since the book was written in the mid-twentieth century. But it amuses him somehow that the man—the youth—the boy touching him doesn't know much of anything from before the colonies were founded, unless he has been shown it directly by one of the rest of them._

_"It's good," he says softly, closing his book and turning to look into eyes which have not yet softened from years of war. "When I'm done, you should read it."

* * *

_

"Why are you here?" It was a simple question, but to my ears, it sounded like it was said in some foreign language. For once, I was glad Brin didn't pry into my life, but simply let me go off and talk with the other man.

He was silent for a long time, before shrugging slightly, and uttering very quietly, "I—. We've been looking for you. It's been—."

"Don't talk crap. Why are _you_ here? Why didn't Winner come? Or _Yuy_?" I realized suddenly that I was just being vindictive, just taking out my frustration on a man I'd once almost brought himself to call friend. But the other man is silent again; we were never very good with words, even four years after the war.

I tried to remember something about the man, something we'd shared aside from risqué passion behind our chosen partners' backs. But nothing would come for some time. After a while, I stood, and wandered to the other side of the gazebo we occupied, leaning against the railing and looking out over the garden, and the campus.

"Duo and I broke it off, after you left."

"Good for you. I guess Heero and I are still together, if we're talking formal break ups."

"He's with Noin now." I turned at those words, stared at the other man for a long, almost incredulous moment. And then I was laughing—throwing my head back and smiling as tears rolled from my eyes at the sheer irony of that. I could hear the other man begin to softly chuckle as well, and then I just smiled sadly, looking back towards the other man.

Trowa Barton had grown in our absences. Had to hold nearly twelve centimeters over me, perhaps ten kilos, at most. He looked good, I had to admit. Fit, trim. Glowing, almost. I'd only seen the other young man like that a couple of other times, and never before the war had ended.

"What are you doing here?"

"Transfer program. PLU does a couple each year, so I signed up for the one to Beijing." I let that sink in for a minute, leaned back against the railing as I looked out over the gardens once more. It was somewhat reassuring to know that Trowa hadn't consciously gone looking for me. At least not until he got to China.

We fell into another slightly uncomfortable silence, before Trowa whispered, almost pitifully, "I'd like if you came back with me at the end of the semester."

"I can't," I answered simply, my eyes darting down to my shoes, than up to Trowa's face.

"Wu Fei—."

"I told you. I don't know who that is." I walked away without another word.

* * *

The letters were written in four different, distinctive scrawls, scrawls I'd once grown to know. For a while, I glared at them, before tucking them into my side-table drawer, promising myself that they would remain there until I could properly burn the damn things. The box contained a few small trinkets. Mementos. Things I'd left behind when I'd left, too rushed to leave the wrath of the people I'd once barely called friends. Tears stung my eyes, and I scowled at the items vindictively.

A small glass dragon shattered on the walkway outside my window. I did not regret it.

* * *

_It begins with a single phrase, picked up he knows not where and spat back out when Heero decides he doesn't quite enjoy the way he has been ignoring him. For a while, the blue eyed man simply stares at him incredulously._

_Quatre is the first in, pulling him away from Heero, who is nursing a split lip and swearing violently in swift Japanese, jabbing an accusing finger towards him and snapping something off. He responds in kind, snarling and biting and pulling against Quatre's strong hold._

_Trowa is the next, pulling Heero hastily aside as Quatre is dragging him out of the room and speaking idly of making him a soothing cup of tea._

_Duo comes home to a tense atmosphere, and settles at the table, across from him, staring at him intently._

_He snaps with the same intensity he'd had in his fight. "What do _you _want?"_

_"What happened? I go out for a couple of hours for a run, and I come back to a war zone." He is very quiet, and then asks tenderly, nearly reaching out to touch his hand gently but thinking better of it in the last minute, "Did you and Heero have a fight again."_

_"That is none of your business, Maxwell." The stiffness of his voice seems to tell the young brunet what he wants to hear. He frowns a little, and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair._

_"Why not be honest with him?"_

_"I _am_ being honest with him. He just won't listen."_

_It has never hurt so much to lie.

* * *

_

"Are you still doing your music?"

Trowa nodded, very slightly, and picked at his noodle bowl with an absent sort of wonder, as though he wasn't entirely sure what it was. Then he smiled slightly, and looked up at me, chuckling very softly under his breath.

"I gave up choir after you left. It . . . didn't seem right." I raised a brow, but didn't say the first thing that popped into my mind—_But you liked singing_—settling instead for asking other mundane, small-talk questions that seemed appropriate, considering it had been almost a year and a half since we'd seen each other.

When the conversation inevitably turned to me, I blew off most of the questions. My tea was almost cold, and my steamed pork rice was on it's way to becoming completely inedible for lack of heat. I sighed, and leaned my elbows on the table, staring at Trowa for a good long time.

"You still haven't told me why you're here."

"Would you have preferred Quatre or Heero? Or Duo?" I thought about that for a second, then sighed, rubbing my temples slightly.

"Winner would have been less awkward—."

"No he wouldn't have." And I suddenly remembered how completely stubborn Trowa could be some times, considering what a pushover he had seemed during the wars. I glared up at him, and leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest. The tall brunet took a bite of his noodles, and made a little face; they must have been cold as well.

"Are we done? I have to get back for classes."

"You don't have afternoon classes," Trowa pointed out, taking another bite of the noodles for no other reason than to delay our inevitable departures. I rolled my eyes, and scowled slightly, drumming my fingers on the table.

"Are you trying to make my life difficult?"

"Is it working?"

My scowl deepened. I stood, flung down the money for my half of the meal, and left the restaurant with a softly muttered curse.

* * *

I could hear, if I listened hard enough, the sound of students returning from parties and clubs in town. Quiet and tinny and far too late for my tastes, but I didn't have to listen. It was an easy stretch to the open window, and shutting it would mean the sounds of the slowly ebbing world would fall completely away for perhaps another hour or two, until I had to wake up. But shutting the window would wake me; and if not that, then the knowledge that Brin was down there, perhaps Trowa as well, would do so. I didn't wish to wake up, and I wasn't listening hard enough to hear the other students yet, anyway.

Now, hours later, I regretted throwing the glass dragon out the window to shatter on the walkway below. It had been of fine craft, and beautiful, for such a tourist-trap trinket. My anger, as always, had gotten the better of me, had swarmed up with those memories that brought such a vile taste to the back of my mouth because I didn't want to remember them now, just wanted them to leave.

The other mementos sat on his side-table almost forlornly, and told of a memory that was not entirely mine; I was not Chang Wu Fei, the man who had somehow managed to collect those things. I couldn't be that man—that youth—that _boy_, with his stupid fixation with honor and pride and justice.

The door opened to the sharp sounds of laughter and rivalry in the commons area, and the sudden sound of pleasure from door, from the middle of the room, from Brin's bed. I curled around myself subtly, and buried my head in my college-grade pillow; it did nothing to drown out the sounds, no matter how I maneuvered myself.

I realized suddenly, laying there and unwillingly listening to Brin's tryst, that this wasn't what I had wanted when I left those scant years ago in hope of leaving the persecution I always seemed to find in the eyes of the men Trowa and I had betrayed. Laying there in my dorm-issue bed, I remembered having an idea of what I wanted to do with my life before any of this had happened, back when I had been young and naive; and back before the war, and my wife . . .

I was only aware I was fully awake when I stood and left the dorm building without a word or backwards glance. Somehow, I ended up in an unoccupied gazebo in the school gardens, staring out into the darkness, trying to find constellations through the glare of Beijing's lights. And standing there, I did something I hadn't done in a very long time.

Without conscious thought, I sank to my knees, and bowed until my forehead touched the floor of the gazebo. Slowly, I straightened, settling my weight onto my crossed ankles as I looked up at the stars, and finally found a cluster I knew and recognized; not stars, but the L5 cluster.

"Ancestors," I murmured, almost pitifully, ignoring the voice in the back of my mind that told me this was wrong, this was weak and dishonorable.

I started again, differently: "Meilan . . . Nataku. Bring me honor, and guidance. I . . . I've lost my way, somewhere, somehow, and I don't know how to regain what I've lost. I suppose I never have.

"Now, here, I apologize for the dishonor I have brought you and your name, Wife, the dishonor I have brought your memory. I was not a good enough husband for you, and you died. I was not a good enough warrior for you, and I fell. And now I am not a good enough person for your memory. So I ran away; I am not the boy you married, not in voice, or person, or name.

"Meilan, hear my prayers. Guide me. Tell me what to do; I've lost my way. I've become . . . weak. Weaker than Wu Fei was."

I was only somewhat aware of the tears on my cheeks, and more aware of the slight keen in my voice. Slowly, I blinked, and bowed once more, until my forehead touched the gazebo floor. And for a while, I was simply like that, prostrate and helpless, sobbing to myself and unwilling to admit that, even when only the stars and I were privy to it.

* * *

On the assumption that Wu Fei is 168 centimeters (about 5' 5.5"), this means that Trowa is about 180 cm (about 5' 9")

On the assumption that Wu Fei is 50 kg (about 110 lbs), this means that Trowa is about 60 kg (132.5 lbs).


	4. Chapter Three

_You come from parents wanton_

_A childhood rough and rotten_

_I come from wealth and beauty_

_Untouched by work or duty_

_And oh, my love, my love_

_And oh, my love, my love_

_We both go down together._

_—excerpt from The Decemberists' "We Both Go Down Together"_

**Chapter Three**

_"Fei, c'mon. Stop being such a hard up."_

_"I already told you, Maxwell, I don't want to go with you." Large, nearly violet eyes suddenly come far too close. He bats at the other man, frowning, upset that his personal space as been breached. Duo frowns slightly, and flicks him between the eyes._

_"Heero's going."_

_"Good for Yuy. I'm not." He settles back into his chair, curls his legs under himself, and slips his glasses onto his nose, intent on starting his book. Duo settles in front of him, and snatches the book away._

_"An hour. You can drive?"_

_"Why would I want to do anything that involves taking you shopping?" Duo rolls his eyes, and flips his wrist absently, negating the question. Than his eyes are almost serious, but sparkling with mirth._

_"Come on, Fei. Don't tell me you don't want to go shopping."_

_"Why would I? It's so . . . effeminate." The word seems to sting suddenly, but maybe that's because Duo's eyes suddenly reflect his shock. But then the brunet laughs slightly, and reaches out, tugging on his ponytail; he yelps, and swats the hand away._

_"Dude, you and me? We may be the tough, manly type in battle, but we kind of epitomize the definition of 'effeminate'."_

_"If you would cut your hair—."_

_"See? You're talking about hair! Come be a homo with me, Fei! Just for one afternoon? Just for me?" And he's pouting. He doesn't wonder why Trowa cannot deny that pout, though he is loathe to admit that, even in his mind. And he's lightly flushed; he doesn't want to 'be a homo' with Duo, even for just an afternoon. He isn't gay._

_After all, gay men don't have wives. We don't sleep with women, don't think of them._

_And heterosexual men don't think of sleeping with our romantically attached comrades. He sighs, and finally bends to the braided brunet's will._

_"How long are we . . . shopping?"_

_"I knew I'd get to you eventually, Fei. Come on. I'll buy you a dragon or something."

* * *

_

"A double date?"

"Sure! Why not? You, me, Lingyei, and you're buddy. It'll be fun. Just the four of us."

"I'm not dating him." Brin rolled his eyes at me, and gabbed his jaw in time with one hand; it was a remarkably familiar move, and made me shiver slightly, before returning my attention to my book.

"Lingyei and I aren't dating either. So it's not a double date then. It's a mass exodus of generally well behaved people to a similar location. There; ya happy?" I glared up at the young man whose hair was no longer iridescent chartreuse, but a striking mix of electric blue and a striking black that matched his skin—his eyes were still that neon color. Brin grinned winningly, and extended his hands to either side of him, doing a little jittery dance. Finally, I sighed.

"Where are we going?"

I never did get a real answer, just 'change into something decent', and followed Brin as he went to collect Lingyei and Trowa—I only wondered for a second how Brin knew where Trowa was staying while I didn't.

Lingyei rode upfront with Brin, talking loudly with him about stupid things, and leaving Trowa to sit in the back with me. I had to admit that Trowa looked nice—black and red and other simple clothes that were more reminiscent of Duo than Trowa, who had always seemed like blues and purples and soft, cool colors. Who had always seemed like winter in an evergreen forest, as Winner had described him once, idly, looking almost pointedly between them.

I . . . well, I just stared at the window and regretted agreeing to come. After all, there were many things I could be doing. All of them somehow _involved_ avoiding Trowa, though none were down-and-out _avoiding_ him. I felt uncomfortable, sitting there and looking foolish, like I had somehow always managed to do after the war, when Duo would somehow convince us to go out to dinner with him and Trowa. Even after 'hooking up' with Yuy, I'd felt like a third wheel. A fifth, actually. Completely useless.

"We're here, boys!"

"A karaoke bar?" I could hear the laughter in Trowa's voice. Lingyei simply squealed and bounded out of the car. For a moment, I sat very still, staring at the building incredulously. Then, Trowa's hand was on my shoulder, a concerned look in his eyes. I climbed out of the car, and grabbed Brin's sleeve as we began to walk.

"I'm going to hurt you one of these days," I vowed quietly, my eyes showing how serious he was. Brin grinned.

"Love you too, An. C'mon, don't be such a spoilsport. It'll be fun!"

Brin didn't seem to understand subtlety. By the middle of the night, he and Lingyei had both conveniently excused themselves, and when I went to check the parking lot, Brin's car was gone; I returned to Trowa's side cursing and muttering and generally looking frustrated and vengeful.

Trowa offered a brief smile, and stood from our booth, depositing the money for our karaoke, and the meals and drinks we'd consumed, before striding up to me. I crossed my arms over my chest, and stared up at the older man.

"The trams don't run this late, and the dorms will be locked by the time I get back," I uttered simply. Trowa's smile grew just a little bit, and a light flush appeared just on the top of his ears, nearly hidden by his hair.

"My apartment isn't far. We'll walk, if that's ok; I'll make sure you catch a tram back to campus for your classes." I nodded, slowly, grudgingly, not entirely sure I wanted to stay with Trowa an entire night; it would be awkward, and, considering how much we'd drunk just between the two of us, it had the potential of becoming more than awkward.

But, sure enough, we were soon walking down the road, back towards where Trowa had holed himself up for his stay in Beijing. The tall youth was humming under his breath, his hands shoved deep in his pockets; I silently envied the larger young man, and tried to suppress a violent shiver. Failing, Trowa looked over at me worriedly, and removed his coat in a wide flourish; despite objection, the warm jacket draped over my shoulders, and I brought my hands slowly up to tug at the zipper until only my fingers showed, below my neck. I muttered a thanks, but refused to look up into sparkling green eyes.

Trowa's building wasn't much to look at, outside, or in, I soon found. The elevator didn't work, and it was as cold inside as it was without. But by the time we'd mounted the landing of the third flight of stairs, I managed to warrant the removal of the coat, which I slung over my arm as we climbed the last two flights, and finally came to the floor holding the tall European's shabby little apartment.

I had to admit, it was better than some of the safehouses. That didn't say much. A tiny kitchenette, minuscule living/sitting/dinning-room/study, and an area nearly partitioned that passed for a bedroom. At least the bathroom was it's own entity, even if it was at the other end of the floor.

A pile of dishes in the sink drew my attention. Trowa groaned suddenly, tossing his newly retrieved jacket towards his mattress.

"I—I've been meaning to do those," he assured, looking childishly abashed as he rubbed the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and stared almost accusingly at the dishes, as though we would miraculously begin to wash themselves. When they didn't, Trowa sighed slightly, and trudged into the kitchenette, shucking his shirt on the way and pitching it the way of his jacket.

I joined the tall brunet swiftly, rolling my sleeves up to my biceps.

"You wash, I'll dry. It'll be done soon." My voice was quiet and sure. Trowa offered a small smile, and began the chore.

* * *

I awoke with sore hands, a slight hangover, and a warm weight pressed into my side, and over my legs. Refusing to open my eyes, I relished the feeling for a moment, before allowing the logical half of my brain to jut in and destroy my well-earned euphoria, screaming something about honor and dignity and old promises.

_Screw honor_, I felt like muttering. But, instead, I pushed against the yielding warmth pressed against me, my eyes still closed.

It became slightly less yielding, and there was a very soft moan of discontent as a hand scrabbled at my back for a moment, before finding my hair, and digging into the soft tresses. I studiously informed honor and dignity that I had tried my damnedest, and settled back into the satiation.

I had never spent early mornings like this with Yuy, who had always been up before dawn to run or wander aimlessly. And my wife and I had never shared a bed, except that first night after our marriage was made completely formal. But once, during the war, when I had stayed with Trowa . . .

Trowa had stayed with me, through the night and into the morning, possessively wrapped around me and murmuring in his sleep.

I wondered, idly, if Maxwell missed that. It was the thought that finally woke me. My eyes sluggishly blinked open, focused on the chest I was pillowed against, rising and falling in even, full breaths, before darting up to the angular, beatific face that I hoped to find in the repose of sleep.

Half-lucid green eyes stared down at me, filled with mirth. Trowa stretched without removing his arms from our comfortable position. Just like the cat he was.

"Morning."

"Barton, I need to get to school," I mumbled. Trowa growled deep in his throat—or perhaps it was a purr—and nuzzled the top of my head slightly; I blushed, and pressed a hand against the brunet's naked chest.

"Five more minutes?"

"You have to get me on a tram—."

"Three more minutes?"

"I still have to get breakfast—."

"One more minute?"

"I need to get dressed—." A soft, airy chuckle that became a tired, slightly confused moan. Trowa did that whole-body, non-moving stretch again, and managed to make eye contact; he was smiling.

"When did I get you naked last night? I don't remember that part of dish washing."

"Idiot," I growled, but it was affectionate. I pushed against Trowa's chest. "Come on, let me up. I at least need to see what time it is—."

"Too early," Trowa mumbled, tightening his hold yet again. His lips grazed over soft caramel skin, and laved at the pulse evident in the nearest temple presented to him. A sharp inhalation through the nose, and my hand on Trowa's chest pressed almost hard enough to break ribs.

"Let go. Now."

"Fei—."

"My name," I growled, slamming a fist into Trowa's chest and making the brunet grunt and loosen his hold, "is Zhang An. I don't know who this Chang Wu Fei you're always talking about is." I stood, and strode about, collecting my clothes. Trowa was watching me intently, still prone under the sparse covers of his futon; it was clear he was wearing even less than me.

He opened his mouth to object, than cursed, and finally shook his head, sitting up.

"Fine. You want to be called 'An', fine. I can do that. But I didn't have an amazing romance with An—."

"You didn't have one with Wu Fei, either, Barton," I reminded crisply, fixing my watch and finding a small mirror amidst the clutter. I straightened my hair. "There was no 'amazing romance'. You and he, you cheated on your significant others. You had an affair."

"He wasn't exactly objecting at the time," was the obvious observation. A sharp glare, and a pointedly raised brow.

"Maybe he should have."

It was a cold statement, and not at all lightened by my, "Get dressed and buy me breakfast before I go to classes." Trowa grumbled under his breath, and handed over a bit of money for the tram ride, before turning onto his other side, and drifting back off to sleep.

I didn't really blame him. That hadn't exactly gone over as well as it could have. With a muttered thanks and good bye, I slipped out of the brunet's flat, and made my way to the closest tram stop, where I loitered aimlessly for a moment before buying a ticket and wandering through the turn-style.

I wondered, as I rode back to campus, if I had expected Trowa to follow me. The logical voice in my mind told me a reassuring, forceful '_no_', but it was the only part of me that thought as such. Groaning, I let my head fall almost painfully against the window I was sitting beside, and proceeded to tap my temple against it for a while, well aware of the confused and startled stares I was getting from the other passengers.

Brin caught up with me at the campus cafe, leering slightly as he whirled a chair around and collapsed into it seemingly boneless. I stared at the bluenet intently for a moment, before raising a brow in question; Brin only laughed slightly, and leaned onto the table a little.

"So," he began, still grinning that slightly menacing grin of his—all teeth and far too much knowledge, "how was the rest of your night?"

"You know what, Brin? Screw you. You set me up!" Brin had the decency to look aghast. His eyes widened mockingly.

"Moi? You must be mistaken. I would _never_ set you up, Zhang. You're too cute!" I cringed at that. Brin laughed, and inspected his fingers, continuing, "Besides, if I were setting you up, I would have left with Lingyei before I did. And I would have—Hey! Trowa!"

For a moment, I thought the other student was mocking me again. I raised my head to glare and snap something scathing, only to see that the blue-and-black haired youth was looking in the other direction.

And waving over one tall, slightly abashed looking young brunet. Cursing, I collected my meal, and tossed what was left into the nearest trash can. Brin looked up at me, startled.

"What's—?"

"I've gotta go . . . study, or something," I snapped, and walked pointedly away from the table.

* * *

_Duo's music is too loud, but he doesn't have the energy to tell the other young man to just shut the racket off. He's too tired, and cold, and aching._

_And then he realizes that it isn't Duo's music, because Duo isn't there. It's Trowa, and he's singing softly in the bathroom, the door open and the light on. He hangs just outside the light spilling from the bathroom, and watches from there, perfectly angled to see the tall young European youth in the mirror._

_He wears only low slung jeans, and we look more like Heero's or Duo's than his own, because we're too tight and not quite long enough. And his soft, pleasant tenor rings true enough with the voice of some before-colony singer that Duo and he must both love, because it's constantly played around the house._

_He watches Trowa, somehow frozen on the edge of light spilling from that room, as the young brunet shaves a mostly nonexistent dusting of stubble, and as he suddenly begins to dance around to the new song that's playing, and cuts himself._

_Trowa curses creatively in a couple of languages. The eyes that watch him, however, are locked on the bead of bright crimson that trails slowly down the column of his throat._

_It is as Trowa is turning around in the bathroom in search of something to stanch the blood that he spots him. There is a flush on his cheeks, and he smiles, ducking out into the dark hall, and suddenly the blood is concealed in the shadows._

_"Hey Fei. When did you get back?"_

_"Just . . . just a little—when did you start singing?" Trowa seems taken back, but he smiles amiably and chortles a bit, ducking back into the bathroom._

_"I'll be out in a minute. Soon as I find—ah. Okay. It's all yours."_

_He tries not to shiver as Trowa bumps his shoulder as he passes. The music is still on.

* * *

_

"Wu— . . . An? Can I sit down?"

"It's a free world," I muttered, flipping a page in my book. Trowa sat down on the bench beside me, and looked out over the gardens silently, leaning over his knees a bit. We sat as such for a moment, before I sighed, and slammed my book shut and down onto the bench, making Trowa jump.

"What do you want?"

"I just wanted to sit down," the brunet uttered softly. A scowl, and I retrieved the book, opening it back up to my page. Trowa was quiet for a moment, picking at a broken nail, before he said, "I'm going back to America soon."

"That's nice."

"I want you to come with me." Sharp, dark eyes met insistent green, and I sighed, almost mockingly, rolling my eyes as I shook my head.

"And why would I do a thing like that? I left for a _reason_, Barton, and you're part of it." Trowa shrugged a little bit, before giving me a sharp little look. "What?"

"I thought you weren't Wu Fei."

"I'm not. That doesn't change the fact that . . ." I trailed off, and scowled, closing the book again, this time to hit Trowa in the shoulder with it. "Be quiet. Stop skewing my logic. It was perfect, until you showed up."

"Must not have been that perfect then. Come on, why not come back? Just for a holiday or semester or something. You could see everybody again—."

"Why would _they_ want to see me again?" Trowa worried his lip at that, and looked away, picking at his broken nail again. With a sigh, the book fell into my backpack, and I leaned back, surveying the gardens.

"You've been so out of touch though. Sally—."

"She has two kids. I know. We correspond." Trowa looked accusingly at me, frowning as his eyes sparked with hurt. "Don't give me that. She found me during a mission, and I requested that she not tell you four. Unlike you, she accepted that I had needed to move on from the boy I was during the war. We correspond as friends; she likes to know how my health is."

"_I'd_ like to know how your health is too, you know," the brunet pointed out. He sighed again, and ran a hand through his hair, tugging it for a moment. "Why won't you come back with me? I live alone now, so it's not like there would be a problem with Duo or Heero—Heero's in a relationship—Quatre's not there—."

"And that's part of the problem," I murmured towards the sky. "We'd be alone together, and I don't like how I act around you when we're alone. You make me _weak_, Barton."

"Why do you have to be strong now? You're not fighting anything—."

"I'm fighting you!" I snapped, glaring at the brunet, who huffed a little. "Why can't you just give it up?"

"Because I—."

"Don't say it." I stood, and left.

* * *

"I don't see what the big deal is, An."

"You wouldn't. You're loose." Brin glared at that term, and tossed the tennis ball he'd been flicking at the wall towards me, hitting me in the stomach. I tossed it back, hitting Brin in the head. "All right, not loose. Just not monogamous."

"Thanks for making me sound like a whore, but I don't see what that has to do with going to America with Trowa." His eyes, now claret instead of chartreuse, flashed slightly as he sat up, tossing his tennis ball into his laundry hamper. "Why _does_ he want you to go to America with him?"

"We're, uh . . . . We knew each other during the war." Brin raised a brow at that, and leaned forward, looking expectant; I had never mentioned the war before, never had a reason to. Mildly, I cursed, and waved a hand. "Don't give me that look. It's something I don't like to remember."

"Did you have trouble with him during the war?"

"What? No. No, we were . . . we were companionable, when I could be companionable, which wasn't often. We spent some time together. Why are you asking me this?" Brin sighed, and ran a hand through his black-and-blue hair, shaking his head a little bit.

"I'm trying to understand you, An."

"Well _don't_."

We fell silent as I flopped back on my bed. Brin's soft sigh was the only warning given before he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and then sitting atop me, pinning my shoulders down and frowning, licking his teeth behind his lip.

"Get off me!"

"Go to America with him, and get over whatever complex you've got, Zhang." I raised a brow, shoving at Brin's chest a bit harder than I had been a moment before.

"Are you _ordering_ me to be miserable?"

"No, I'm ordering you to get _over_ yourself! I'm ordering you to take that stick outta your arse and get something _else_ shoved up there!" I flushed a little, and beat a fist against Brin's chest; he barely flinched, and bared down on me a little harder, snarling. "What's so bad with admitting you have feelings for him?"

"I _don't_. I never _have_!"

"Stop lying!"

"I'm not lying!" I snarled, and finally managed to shove Brin off. With a sneer heavy on my lips, I threw my arms up in disgust, snapping, "Do you want to know what happened? I was the _other man_, Brin. He slept with me while he was with someone else, and I the same. I can't go back to him!"

And Brin was silent, and let the subject drop.


	5. Chapter Four

_Sound the trumpets; beat the drums;_

_Flush'd with purple grace:_

_He shows his honest face:_

_Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes . . ._

_Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;_

_Rich the treasure;_

_Sweet the pleasure;_

_Sweet the pleasure after pain._

_—excerpt from John Dryden's "Alexander's Feast", III_

**Chapter Four**

_The first time it happens, he is able to pass it off for one of Maxwell's stupid American drinking games. He is able to say that it never happened, that he was drunk, and nobody cared at the time._

_But the second time it's harder. And the third time, it's even harder than before. And by the time he realizes he can't justify it any longer, it's too late to do anything about it, because he's too far gone._

_"I always wondered," Quatre says one day, stirring his drink and lounging in the sand idly, "why it is that I happen to be the only heterosexual in our group. Statistically, it doesn't make sense."_

_"Sex isn't statistics, Kitty," Duo states from where he's trying to get a tan, and only succeeding in turning bright pink. He smiles at the blond, and flicks his leg. "You're just lucky."_

_"I'm not homosexual," he grumbles, flipping his page idly and scanning the words presented swiftly. Beside him, Duo snorts, and he can practically hear Heero roll his eyes. Trowa is just strangely silent. Quatre looks at him, blinking a little owlishly._

_"You're not?"_

_"Well, I suppose if you're going by the sex of my partners, than I would be," he mutters, blushing at his book page. He doesn't elaborate, but looks over the top of his page to look at Trowa, who suddenly stands, and states that he's going swimming. Heero joins him; Duo makes a somewhat crude comment on how the taller brunet looks 'yummy' when he's wet, which makes Quatre giggle uncontrollably._

_He wants to justify it._

_He can't help but stare.

* * *

_

"You realize that I'm only doing this so you'll leave it alone, right? This doesn't mean anything to me." Trowa nodded a little, but he was smiling, very softly. With a sigh, I looked away from the taller man, cursing under my breath as we sat, waiting for our plane to enter the tarmac. I drummed my fingers on the stiff plastic armrest of my stiff plastic chair, until Trowa covered my hand, and squeezed gently.

The sun was setting, all in violets and pinks and pale, beatific blues, over the tarmac to turn it all to amber fire, a flash-flood to the eyes as the sun burst through the clouds to glare dangerously over the horizon. I watched, bedeviled by the simple beauty, unwilling to remove Trowa's hand from my own, too sated with that tiny pleasure being given, though I was loathe to admit it. High above, a plane circled for landing, and just beyond the window, one raised smoothly into the sky, off to deliver its passengers to wherever they might roam.

It was hard to imagine that I hadn't left China since those short years back when I'd left everyone behind, and said I'd be back—promised I'd be back, promised that I would be seen again. I'd never been very good at lying, and wasn't this situation just the finest example of that? The sun finally sank over the edge of the world, and someone called for our boarding group—first in Mandarin, then in Spacer, and finally in English. I stood, and stretched, grabbing my carryon. Trowa wasn't far behind me.

The flight was, unsurprisingly, as boring as flights could get. I spent my time fidgeting, shooting occasional glances towards Trowa, who always seemed to look up just when I did that. It was unnerving, the way he always seemed to just _know_ when to look up; it reminded me uncomfortably of Yuy, and how he would always do that when I was looking at him, which always seemed to match with times that found us in bed together. And that thought was an unsettling one. There had been more than one occasion where I'd had to question the overall consent of those romps, where I'd looked back and wondered what I had said with my body language or my eyes that had meant we ended up on our backs together.

No, not me. That had happened to _Wu Fei_. I studiously shoved aside those sad little memories, and fixed the headphones I was wearing, focusing idly on the bad movie that was being broadcasted over the airplane.

I started, very gently, when Trowa touched my hand, and looked over at him incredulously. The brunet only smiled softly, shrugging one shoulder, curling his fingers until they covered mine easily. And to that, I had nothing to say.

The airport we landed in wasn't much, I could admit, as we loitered near the baggage claim after wandering aimlessly through customs and three different security stations—all of which made me scoff under my breath and mutter a reprisal, wondering what they were all _paid_ for, making Trowa chuckle softly. We gathered our luggage, and claimed a cab, driving swiftly away from the airport and towards the little urban home Trowa had claimed for himself.

It was different than the apartment we had all shared, almost drastically so, but distinctly Trowa. There were things strewn about in some chaotic sort of order, which the brunet scurried to correct, apologizing softly, directing me 'down the hall and third door on the right' to stay in the tiny guest room.

Starkly white and furnished with only a twin bed and small chest of drawers. I sighed, and settled onto the bed as Trowa ducked in, blushing softly.

"Sorry it's not much. I don't have a whole lot of people over."

"I can see that." I tucked his things into the drawers, leaving plenty in my luggage, as though I was expecting to get kicked out, or just leave of my own free will. Trowa smiled a little more genuinely, darting his bangs out of his eyes.

"There's a little sushi bar not far from here. Would you like to go?"

"I'm a little tired—."

"Of course." It was hasty, the way he said it, and a little surprising to see the abashed look on his face as he loitered in the doorway a moment, before ducking back out and wandering away.

I sighed, and settled onto the bed, running bronzed fingers through black locks and _pulling_, until I came away with a few strands and I could feel the blood welling to the surface. Flopping back against the nearly insanely white sheets, I rubbed my eyes tiredly, and wondered just _what_ I had gotten myself into with all this.

* * *

"I made breakfast."

"And you didn't blow up the kitchen, either. I'm honestly impressed."

"Don't say that yet. You haven't tasted it." I chuckled, and Trowa smiled softly, dishing over a couple of pancakes and some eggs, placing a plate of bacon and sausage out between them.

Trowa's tiny apartment, in the days we'd been there, had decided to take on a more home-like feel. The brunet had dug out trinkets from before, and slowly begun to sprinkle the shelves and side tables with them, not so quickly as to be obvious, but clearly in some ploy to either guilt or bribe me into staying, into making the living space a _home_.

I wanted none of it, but didn't say anything. Occasionally, I'd pick something up, inspect it carefully under Trowa's watch, and then place it back where it had been, showing no sign of recognizing the piece.

It tore at me, to see the young man try so hard. Brin's order to get over myself rang resolutely, something similar to a conscience, but was contested instantly by that valiant little voice in the back of my head that always seemed to speak up just when I contemplated joining Trowa on his tiny balcony for a chat or a drink or _something_.

It was distressing to know that my logic was breaking apart at the seams, tumbling around me as I allowed myself to grow comfortable with the surroundings, and convince myself that, this time, it would be different.

"Is it good?" I nodded, and grabbed a few pieces of bacon, thankful for the change of pace in my diet. Trowa seemed to share the unspoken sentiment. "You're too thin, you know? I should at least put some meat back on your bones."

"There's meat there," I muttered through my mouthful, excusing myself as I grabbed the jug of orange juice and poured myself a generous amount. Trowa rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure there's meat _there_, it's just not anywhere I'm _seeing_." And that drew a flush to both our cheeks as our eyes met. Trowa hadn't meant it like that, of course not, I told myself resolutely, looking away and focusing on consuming the rest of my breakfast.

Trowa took my plate as we finished, and I followed the brunet into the kitchen, already turning up my sleeves to help with the dishes. The brunet frowned a little, and shoved me back out the door into the sitting room, chuckling a little under his breath.

"You're my house guest, right? You shouldn't be doing my dishes."

"I haven't anything better to do," I pointed out, but Trowa just shook his head resolutely, and gave me one final push.

"Go read a book or something. You used to _love_ to read while the rest of us did stuff." I gave the brunet a sharp little look, but Trowa smiled, and pushed me away again, chuckling just a little bit. "Get used to it," he ordered, "because I'm not going to stop doing things like that."

It was an unsettling thought to add to an unsettling prospect.

I went back to my room, and read.

* * *

_"What are you doing?"_

_He looks over at him, smiling very softly, and shrugs just one shoulder, leaning over the back of the sofa. Trowa is sleep-blurry and stumbling, but still with that effortless grace that he will always possess; it is unnerving._

_"Couldn't sleep. Heero's not back yet."_

_"I'm sure he's fine." And he shrugs again. Trowa sits beside him, leans against him slightly and sighs, and he has to try very hard not to wrap his arms around his shoulders._

_"And you?"_

_"Duo woke me up." So he doesn't really want to know, but he understands the inquisitive look he must have on his face, because even in the dusk of the sitting room, Trowa's blush is bright and beautiful on his lightly tanned cheeks._

_But before either of them can speak again, the door opens, and Heero stumbles in, blinking his eyes in obvious fatigue. He smiles a little, and stands, barely watching Trowa as he approaches Heero, who engulfs him slowly into a hug._

_And then there is nothing else to say.

* * *

_

It took me a while to wake up, and I couldn't quite figure out why. Perhaps it was the comfortable warmth of the sheets I was wrapped in, or the soft smells of dinner being cooked filling my nose. I couldn't even remember when I'd fallen asleep, and begrudged that a bit—I'd never be able to sleep now, even though I did feel totally drawn and bone-tired.

I stumbled into the living room to the sound of light laughter and conversation, and furrowed my brow, hurrying my steps just a little, straightening myself out a bit.

I halted unsurely in the doorway, blinking stupidly.

"Hey; you're up. Dinner's almost ready." Trowa went to ruffle my hair, and stopped at a withering glare, lifting his hands in surrender instead, shaking his head a bit and chuckling. He had a glass of wine beside him on the breakfast bar, and turned his attention to this newest house guest.

I didn't even flinch when the sparkling blue eyes turned to me with a slightly perturbed glimmer. I inclined my head slightly, and took a step back out of the kitchen.

"I'm not that hungry," I whispered, rubbing my shoulder nervously. "I think I'll just go back to bed."

"Wu—An? An, what's wrong?"

I hurried down the hall, trying to quell the growing annoyance and jealousy that had swelled heedlessly in my chest. There was no reason for it to be there, really—Trowa had wished me home as a companion, with no word of what he truly wished, and it had been foolish of me to make wild assumptions, even if he had said that he and Duo were no longer an item. Of course they'd still be friends; Heero and Quatre had continued to be companionable after their split, and even after Heero had started a relationship with me.

It was foolish of me to assume.

"An?" Trowa's voice was muffled through the door. "I'm coming in?"

I just sat on the bed, and stared at him over my pillow blankly. He sighed, rubbed the back of his head, chuckled humorlessly, obviously nervous over the entire situation.

"I didn't know he was going to come over, or I would have told you—."

"Did you tell him that I was here?" Trowa's chuckle grew a bit more humorous, and he shrugged, rolling his eyes absently.

"He said 'So long as you two don't start macking it, I shouldn't blow a gasket' and went on his merry way cooking for three instead of two."

"Does he do this often? Cook for you."

"He's _Duo_." That was answer enough. Of course he did. I sighed, and flopped onto my back, turned onto my side and pulled the pillow over my head. "An—."

"I'm tired, Barton. If you don't mind?" I waved vaguely at the door, before my hand flopped back to the comforter.

The bed sank with his weight behind me, and I flinched just a little as he ran his cold fingers—cold from the wine Duo had brought him—along my back, shivering a bit. Mentally, I cursed myself; I was being weak and childish about the entire thing, thinking that everything had so drastically changed when I had left and _forced_ myself to do just that.

"If you'd like me to, I'll ask him to leave."

"He's your _friend_." I spat that like a curse, and grumbled at the fact that I sounded like some jealous, love-struck fifteen-year-old girl. I curled around myself a little, and tried to ignore the way that his hand was splaying pleasantly against my back.

"I'd like you to be comfortable with your stay, though. If this won't work well . . ." He trailed off, his fingernails scraping characters that I had taught him once along the back of my ribcage—pride, valor, hope, other words that made me shiver helplessly. I turned, and looked up at him through the darkness of the room.

The light from the hall gleamed on him generously, and I sat up slowly, half turning to face him fully.

A cough at the door made me flop back dejectedly, cursing my foul thoughts and Duo's foul timing.

"The chicken's ready if you are. You eatin' with us, Fei?"

"Duo—," Trowa began. I sat up, and glared at him sharply, cocking a brow.

"I haven't been 'Fei' in nearly three years, Maxwell." I shook my head, and chuckled humorlessly. "No, I'm not eating with you two. Have fun."

I shoved Trowa off the bed, and curled back around the pillow, pretending I couldn't hear Duo talking about me under his breath as they left the room.


	6. Chapter Five

_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death_

_I shall fear no evil_

_For thou art with me_

_Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me_

_—from Psalm 23_

**Chapter Five**

Waking up, it took me a moment to realize where I was, why I was there, and why, in all the names of the gods, somebody was playing country music in the next room. I groaned, thought about getting out of bed to complain, and settled instead to smothering another groan of despair in the pillow closest to my face.

Duo had stayed over, then.

I moved the pillow away from my face, and looked over at the clock; it was nearly noon. With a quiet little curse, I climbed out of bed, and dressed, grumbling under my breath, trying to figure out what I'd say when I got out there to the longhaired brunet.

The music wasn't actually that unpleasant, if you just sat there and listened to it for a while. Still, I had no such compulsion to do so. As I passed the stereo, I flicked the cd to the next disk over, and hummed to the soft strains of altra-rock, a band now classic, which seemed much more the genre that anybody I knew—_had known_—would listen to.

Duo stuck his head out of the kitchen, smiling softly as though ready with a ribbing, and blinked at me. I carefully didn't meet his eyes, and stepped passed him, opening the refrigerator and digging through absently.

"There's not much in there," he uttered gently, as though if he spoke too strongly one of us might break apart. A heavy strain colored his words, told of his annoyance at seeing me and the way he was so desperately trying _not_ to cave in my skull.

"Trowa doesn't shop much." I practically slammed the door shut, and leaned heavily against the counter.

As the comment sunk in, I blinked a little, and finally looked up at Duo, asking, "Where is Trowa?"

I got a good look at him as he deliberated over answering. He'd cut his hair back a bit, but not too much—it was probably a recent cut, because he kept seeming just a bit startled when his braid would hit higher than it used to. And he looked good, all things considered; a bit red in the eyes, like maybe he'd been drunk very recently, or he hadn't slept much last night.

I didn't need to be thinking about anything like that. And then he was talking.

"Une called him out." It took a moment for the words to sink in, and then I was cocking a brow, sneering just a bit.

"He _left_?" Duo nodded a little. His fingers were twitching absently, ticking against his thumbs; it was a distracting movement, but not so distracting that I got over my annoyance. I strode passed him, grumbling under my breath.

I was tense when he grabbed my arm, and thought about caving in _his_ skull, but decided that the mess would be hell to clean up. Plus, Trowa wouldn't have been terribly pleased with the knowledge that I'd murdered his ex in his apartment.

I wouldn't think about that, about them. I _couldn't_.

"He asked me to watch the apartment. And to keep you here."

"What the hell? I'm under _house arrest _or something?" I yanked my arm away, and stormed off. But I could hear Duo following me, quiet in the wake of my noisy anger. I slammed the door, and leaned against it, and thought about locking it, but thought better of it. Even if Duo didn't have lock picks, he'd figure out a way to get in here if he really wanted to.

He always could.

Through the door, he snarled, "Look, Chang. This isn't exactly a paradise match-up on my side either. I'm doing this because Trowa asked nicely."

I thought about barking some cruel back at him, about how Trowa had _asked nicely_ for me to come to bed with him, how Trowa had _asked nicely_ that I stay after Maxwell had found out about us. I thought about reminding Maxwell that Trowa had been our _enemy_ on more than one occasion in the wars, that you didn't bend to the enemies will just because they _asked nicely_.

Until I remembered that I was not Chang, and that I didn't have to take this crap. I stomped away from the door, and sat heavily on the bed, rubbing my face.

Duo came in, and stood in front of me for a good, long time, just staring at me. After a while, he snorted, and I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. He growled, "You're acting like some sort of rebuffed lover or something. Isn't that _my_ job—?"

"Do not _start_ that argument!" I snapped, glaring up at the brunet sharply. He met my gaze sternly, cocking a brow, as though daring me to be upset by his audacity to bring up the subject. I scoffed, and looked away, shaking my head. "I don't have _time_ for this. I have to get back to Beijing."

"Trowa told me not to let you leave."

"_I don't care what Barton told you_!"

Maxwell seemed almost to rock back on his heels, and he stared at me, wide-eyed, in the face of my hideous roar. I rubbed my throat, almost angry, and cleared it a bit as I toed open the bottom-most of my drawers. His eyes were on me, and I could practically feel the incredulous frustration that whirled around him.

"Don't you get it?" he hissed. I kept throwing my things onto the bed, an angry haste coloring my movements. He stormed in fully, and grabbed my arm; he threw me against the dresser, and scowled at me dangerously. "I'm doing you both a _fucking_ favor here, Chang."

"How do you figure?" I tore my arm away, and dug my bags out of the closet, trying to ignore his very presence.

He shoved me down onto the bed, and straddled my hips, despite my struggle. His hands were heavy and hard on my shoulders, holding back my fitful thrashing. I snarled at him, angry mixes of Chinese and Spacer curses I'd grown up hearing.

"He _loves_ you."

"Shut up!" I growled, grabbing his wrists and pressing hard on the pressure points I knew were there. He didn't budge, didn't even flinch.

"He brought you back here because he's been fucking_ miserable_ since you left. You _promised_ him you'd come back, Chang. You _promised_. What happened to the kid I knew who didn't even _know_ what it meant not to keep your word, Chang—?"

"_Don't call me Chang_!" He blinked at me, and I huffed, growling under my breath, swearing creatively. I harshly ordered, "Get off me." It took a moment for him to comply. I lay there then, rubbing my shoulders and staring at the ceiling.

I couldn't quite understand what was going on.

"Since when have you stopped being Chang?"

"Since I _left_, because you and Yuy were about an inch short of _killing_ me," I grumbled, glaring over at the brunet haughtily. He seemed almost sheepish for a moment, but the expression fled in the face of his long-festered frustration.

"We had damn good reason, ya know. You don't really expect to come home to _that_." I hadn't thought of it either. Which was entirely part of the problem. I sat up a little bit. He was staring at me, like I was some odd thing he couldn't quite comprehend. "How could you do it?"

"Why are you dumping this on me?" I bit, nearly incredulous. Some small part of me tried to remind me that this wasn't my battle; this had been _Wu Fei_'s problem, and I had no right to intervene on either side of the argument. My vindictive conscience snarled, clawing at my chest like it might erupt through and consume me. "I wasn't exactly keen on the whole idea."

"Then why keep it up?"

"What does it _matter_?" He gave me a look, level and burning, that boiled with anger and resentment. I sighed, and shook my head. "I'm not going to apologize, because, for one, it wouldn't do any good. And for another, I'm not Wu Fei, so I'm not going to acknowledge his mistakes." And with that, I returned to packing.

Duo scoffed harshly, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest, and tapped his foot impatiently.

"If you were any sort of man, you wouldn't be _running_ from this."

He left, and I stared at my shaking hands.

* * *

_Duo is just standing there, and that's unnerving enough, but it's more the blind determination that unsettles him beyond belief._

_He strikes, fast and hard, and is just barely deflected with a grunt and swift counter, which makes him stumble back a little bit, chuckling and bouncing on the balls of his feet, all manic energy that seems completely out of place._

_He wonders how he got wrangled into it all this time, but he moves through his motions, far more fluid than the longhaired brunet, and doesn't worry too much of things like that. If he wanted to, he could hurt the larger young man, teach him a lesson. But he doesn't really want to._

_Instead, he gets him on his back, a foot in the middle of his chest, and he cocks a brow._

_"Are we done?"_

_"Yeah, yeah. Sheesh. You don't pull your punches much, do you?" Duo cringes a little, and favors his stomach with a hiss of pain. He pulls the brunet to his feet, scowling a little._

_"I'll get you an ice pack."_

_"Thanks Fei."

* * *

_

I could hear, if I listened hard enough, the sound of Duo rustling about in the kitchen, working over something or another. Chipper and perhaps too enthusiastic and filled with poorly sung songs that I didn't really recognize, but I didn't have to listen. It was an easy stretch to the pillows sprawled around me, and I could always burrow away and try to whittle away the hours until the insufferable brunet left for one reason or another. At least until he gave up on his latest 'ballad'. But moving would involve rising from my peaceful stupor, where I could contemplate the wiles of this strange fate; and wonder over when I had become so spineless in my resolve. I didn't wish to wake up, and I wasn't at all interested in facing more of Duo's contemptuous ramblings.

He knocked on the door, and I groaned quietly, pitching one of the pillows in that direction when the door opened and he stepped in. Of course, he caught it, and I just stared at him, my stern expression a pitiful excuse for a glare as I peered over my covers.

For a moment, he stood there, staring at me, before shaking his head and rolling his eyes a little. He grumbled, "I don't know what Heero and Trowa saw in you. You're like a fucking girl; get over yourself. And come eat."

"I'm not hungry," I grumbled, and huddled under the covers. Then again, I wasn't really tired, either. Just lethargic now, lulling in and out of attention as I contemplated the best way to deal with the situation.

Duo tore the covers from my bed, and smacked me, as hard as he could, with the pillow. He scowled at me as I jumped up, nearly falling into stance, and sneered a little. The pillow landed in my face.

"It's not my fault if you starve yourself to death, but Trowa'll have a fit. Get _over_ yourself." I just flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, scowling almost, and listened to him swear and storm out of the room, grumbling under his breath venomously. Somehow, however, I pulled myself out of bed, wrapped in the fluffy white comforter, and wandered out into Trowa's sitting room, where I sprawled over the couch, and tried to look as unswayed as possible by Duo's presence.

He placed a plate of spaghetti on the coffee table, and returned a moment later with a cold beer as well. I looked up at him dully, and then back at the pasta; he scoffed a little, and grumbled as he walked back into the kitchen, "I didn't _poison_ it."

After he'd left, I grabbed the plate, and pillowed it between my knees and my chest, twirling the fork through the long strands, watching the butter and sauce glisten against the pale yellow of the pasta. Duo returned, and took over the chair placed towards the other end of the couch. I munched thoughtfully at the pasta, and watched Duo for a long moment.

It was good, if still a little undercooked. Duo had never been a master chef; he was more of a baker.

I quietly pointed out, "You made the sauce I like."

"Yeah, well, screw me for feeling like being considerate," he grumbled, as though my words had been a mortal insult. I cringed a little, and shrugged one shoulder. The beer looked rather nice as well, just sitting there.

I grabbed it, and successfully managed to open it with my teeth. Duo stared at me, his nose wrinkled a little, and asked, "Doesn't that hurt your molars? That's gotta be shit on your enamel."

"Just have to grip it right," I informed him, and took a swig; it was Sapporo, rather than his American swill, and I was appreciative, however begrudgingly, of that as well. "I learned from some of the guys I work with. You learn interesting ways to open bottles when you've lost a thumb or finger. Or an arm."

He looked mildly interested, but I didn't say anything else after that, focusing on the cool sharpness of the hops, and the warm, smooth flavor of the sauce and spaghetti So, instead of pressing the issue, he turned on Trowa's small TV, and flipped through the channels absently, keeping the volume respectfully low.

After a very long time, I hazarded, "Are you still going to school?"

"I dropped out after you left. No point, when I knew I was gonna lose my scholarship." I mentally cringed at that. After all, it had been me who had found him the scholarships after he'd spent the money he'd illegally gained during the war on charities or non-profit organizations or any number of other things, including Hilde Schbeiker's scraping business. I'd helped with the essays and keeping his grades up.

Still, I knew he was smart enough to keep those scholarships; I wasn't overly upset over his guilting words. I ignored them, then, and focused on my food once more. After a while, I quietly asked, "Do you know when Trowa will be back?" He shook his head, and turned up the volume on a particularly violent-looking flick flashing across the screen, pausing his channel surfing to lean forward and wonder over the picture for a moment.

He left it on that, and sprawled back into the chair comfortably. I noted, perhaps randomly, that it was not one of the ones we'd had in the apartment we'd shared before I'd left America—chastised myself a little for thinking of myself like _that_ again—and finished my plate of pasta, setting it aside. Absently, I watched the beer swirl in the dark brown bottle as I swung it between my index and middle finger.

After a good, tense silence, I stood, dealt with my dishes, and finished my beer in the kitchen. Duo was carefully not-watching me from the chair, and I said little, feeling even more like I was under house arrest than I had felt when Trowa had first convinced me to come back to America—though that been strictly self-imposed; I had no right blaming that on the tall brunet.

"There are ginger snaps in the cookie jar," Duo suddenly called, jumping me from my introversion. "If you want some."

I shook my head, hiked the comforter up around my shoulders absently, and wandered back down the hall into my room. As the door shut, I heard the TV turn off, and thought I heard the distinct sound of Duo hitting his head against something in frustration. I locked the door.


	7. Chapter Six

_And in that dream I dreamt—how like you this?—_

_Our first night years ago in that hotel_

_When you came with your deliberate kiss_

_To raise us towards the lovely and painful_

_Covenant of flesh; our separateness;_

_The respite in our dewy dreaming faces._

_—from Seamus Heaney's "Glanmore Sonnets"_

**Chapter Six**

_"A Preventer, huh? I thought they didn't hire people with criminal records."_

_Trowa just stares at him for a moment, before looking at Quatre, who smiles lightly, and shrugs a little, saying, "I'm sure Miss Une will over look something like that. They were wrongful charges anyway—." And he snorts, cutting that statement off, because it's a damn lie, and they all know it._

_He twirls his fingers over the grain of the table, and shrugs one shoulder. Quatre claps lightly, and he knows the lean blond is smiling, at least a little bit, and that frustrates him, at least a little. Slowly, he looks back up at them, over at Duo, and finally at Heero, who carefully just doesn't look at anybody._

_Later, as Heero traces some absent kanji onto his back, he utters, "I don't think you should." He turns onto his back, and snorts._

_"Trying to protect me, Yuy?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Don't."

* * *

_

I woke slowly, and listened for a very long time. There was no music playing, no quiet conversation directed at nobody, no sound of food cooking on the stove. Almost gratefully, I sighed, and slipped out of bed, wandering on silent, naked feet out of my room and towards the kitchen.

Duo lay asleep on the couch, his head pillowed on his arms and his mouth slightly agape. His hair was beginning to escape the braid, and had curled around him in the night; his clothes were horribly rumpled from the cramped position and the tossing he no doubt did in his sleep. I stared at him for a very long moment, and then continued into the kitchen.

The refrigerator had been restocked at some point that I had not noticed. I pulled out whatever I felt like, setting things up around the stove and organizing as quietly as I could, somehow devilishly considerate of the second house guest inhabiting Trowa's small apartment. But when the silence of the apartment became too much, even for me, I ducked back into Trowa's sitting room, and quietly messed with the stereo, managing to find a classical music station; that I turned down fairly low, not wanting to wake Duo—at least not consciously.

I continued to cook, and at some point or another, I heard Duo wake up on the couch and grumble quietly to himself. He stumbled into the kitchen without looking around, and didn't even notice me until after he'd grabbed the tangerine juice, a glass, and begun to drink.

He smiled ruefully. "Finally decided to come out of the den of woe, huh?" I shrugged a little, and he finished his little glass of juice, before proclaiming that he 'had to piss like a racehorse'. To be honest, I wasn't overly surprised by the rash proclamation—or perhaps I was just _that tired_ after everything else—and I just kept cooking like my life depended on it.

When he came back, he had showered as well, and was wrestling with the tangles in his long hair, muttering swear words under his breath. I slid the latest group of sausage onto the paper-towel covered plate, and strode over to him, extending a hand.

He slowly handed over the brush, and turned his back to me. I quickly and methodically worked the knots out, and went through a few extra times for good measure, before handing back the implement and returning to breakfast.

"Thanks . . . uh. Actually, Tro' never explained the whole no-longer-Fei thing to me." I peered over my shoulder, and stared at him for a second. He had his hair over his shoulder, and was tying off his braid absentmindedly.

"It's Zhang An now," I offered, and he nodded a little, circling around the bar and sitting quietly.

The strains of Vivaldi wormed over us. Duo quietly murmured, "Was that an alias you used during the wars?"

"No. I . . . had a friend named An." I dished him up a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon, and a single pancake—there wasn't enough batter to make more than three, and I didn't want the eggs, so I justified the greater quantity of fiber for my diet.

"Good friend? From before the war, I'm guessing." I cocked a brow at him.

"Why do you care?" He shrugged, and munched on a link as I watched him closely. After he swallowed, he shrugged again.

"Just trying to make conversation." I shifted behind the counter a little, and poked at my bacon absently for a moment, before picking up a piece and chewing it thoughtfully.

After a long time, I asked, "Do you know when Trowa will be back?" He shrugged, and the swift cacophony of 'Night on Bald Mountain' moved over us with supple tones. Duo tapped his foot absently, twirling his fork to the music and humming softly; I'd never taken him for the classical music sort. But, then again . . .

"Hey, you've been cooped up in this house way to long," he suddenly blurted. "Wanna go out with me this afternoon? I have to run some errands and make sure my neighbor's actually taking care of my cat."

"When did you get a cat?" He shrugged, and smiled a little.

"Quatre gave her to me. Random 'Have A Nice Thursday' present." He leaned on the bar a little, his braid half slipping onto his shoulder. "Wanna come around with me? You've gotta be so _bored_ locked up in here."

I shrugged, explained I had homework I should be doing, and got only a scoff and roll of the eyes. He said, "When we're done, you get dressed, and we'll go out, ok? Just us kids."

"Duo, I don't know—."

"What'll it hurt?" He was going to great lengths for such a small thing, and I realized, however belatedly, that this was his new start, that perhaps he _needed_ me to come out with him, because I wasn't _that man_ any more, and he could maybe let a bit of that animosity go.

It was perhaps at that exact instant that I should have figured everything out. But I didn't.

* * *

Duo slipped into his apartment and caught a small tan cat easily, before opening the door and welcoming me quietly in, stating that he'd only be a minute—he had to grab some stuff from his bedroom and bathroom, since he didn't have anything for himself over at Trowa's, and he'd been wearing the same clothes for three days—and handing the little cat over to me.

She stared at me with large orange eyes, and purred softly, managing to wriggle out of my grasp and up onto my shoulder, before deciding that my head had a better vantage point. I sighed, and looked around, picking things up at random as I inspected the apartment. And she never even dug in her claws.

On an end table, there was a picture of the five of us. The memory of the afternoon was vividly hazy, like someone walking through a mirage. We were all smiling—as best as any of us could, which meant that Winner and Duo were both buoyant grins, while Yuy and Trowa were basically staring down the photographer, and I—_not you_, some small voice snarled deep within my gut; _not you_—was hazarding half a wondering smile without really looking at anything.

I picked it up, and noticed the time stamp, half blocked by the frame. The picture was _old_, outdated by almost four years, and I set it back down with a quiet reverence, noticing the dust that had collected around it without daring to touch the frame, and wondered over that silent diligence.

Duo came back into the room, and chuckled at seeing his cat sitting on my head. He snatched her down, and baby-talked her for a moment, before tucking her under his arm casually, as though she were some little rag doll. Then he smiled a little shyly, looking at the picture as well.

"It, uh . . . it fits the frame best. The composition, you know? Very asymmetrical." He gave up after that, and set his cat onto the floor; she scurried off into his small kitchenette, and he sighed a little, stating, "I'm as ready as I'm gonna be. You ok?"

"Yes," I assured, "I'm fine." And he nodded a little, smiling gently. We walked together out to his little beat-up car, and folded ourselves into it. He turned on the radio—respectfully changed it from its ever-present Country station to something that vaguely resembled classic rock—and pulled out of the parking garage.

We didn't really talk much. The city had changed a little in my absence, and I was more than willing to ignore my driver and simply stare out at the street like an idiot, watching the buildings go by with quiet adoration for a city I had never admitted to enjoying much of. But perhaps that was the joy of such a venture—I could leave, now, and return to my bustling, multitonal city in China when this was all over, and forget again the salty air of Seattle.

We pulled into a pay-and-park in Little Asia. I curled into my coat a little, and breathed deeply of sharp spices leaving restaurants on either side of us, my eyes closed slightly. After a moment, I peered over my shoulder at Duo.

"Did we ever go and have Dim Sung together?" He blinked, and shrugged.

"I think we might have as a group, once or twice, but I don't really remember." I pointed to the south of us, at a corner restaurant, and smiled softly. He shrugged, and agreed without actually saying anything.

We worked our way through a filling lunch, and when that was done, adjourned throughout the rest of the shops, talking as easily as we could, and some times just falling into a companionable, gentle silence.

A trinket shop, three blocks up from our parking area, was the final stop—"My feet are starting to hurt a bit," Duo proclaimed just outside the store, but I figured it had more to do with the rain storm that was gathering quickly over us.

I picked up a couple of things, watched Duo fool around with the intricately painted paper fans, and finally, after nearly an hour of perusing the tiny shop, inspecting every last detail, we stepped back out onto the street.

Duo grumbled at the sky, and we hurried down the blocks towards the pay-and-park, where our car was the last, seated in the growing dark and looking forlorn in the heavy rain. I kicked at the gravel idly, turned my face up to the drops, and only looked back down when Duo swore loudly, and returned to me, carrying his duffle bag and an umbrella, which he opened right over our heads.

"The battery's shot," he grumbled. I laughed softly, and moved out from under the umbrella. "Damnit, come back here. You're gonna catch your death."

"So worried, Duo?" I cradled the back of my head, and stared up at the sky, letting the rain gently kiss my cheeks. "It's nice though. There isn't much wind any more, and it's fairly warm."

"It's _wet_, is what it is," Duo grumbled, and strode up beside me. I kept carefully out of reach of the umbrella's sprawling berth, and kicked at the air as we walked, glad for the rain.

After a while, I asked over the thunderous sound of the downpour why he lived in Seattle if he hated the rain. He was quiet for a very long time, before saying, "I don't hate the rain itself. I just don't have a lot of good memories tied to the rain."

"This won't make a good memory?"

He looked at me, his eyes wide and serious and shining in the half-light. I chuckled at myself, and carefully didn't look at him for a very long time, trying to figure out why I had said something like that in the first place.

We rode a rail-car up to Trowa's condo, and shook ourselves off in the tiny mudroom adjacent to the kitchen. I stripped off my clothing without any thought, and trudged through the house, tossing the clothes into the laundry room, and returned to the kitchen to find Duo peeling out of his boxers. I tossed him a towel.

"Better get that hair dry." I wasn't entirely sure if I had said it out loud. I wandered back to the room I was staying in, and dried myself off, pulling on some comfy sweat-clothes.

Duo was wearing similar, sitting on the couch and rubbing his hair as dry as he could, swearing under his breath. I sat beside him, and took both hair and towel, slowly unraveling the braid and rubbing the towel with swift moves over the soaked tresses.

"That's gonna be a bitch to get back up," he muttered, half peering over his shoulder at me. I shrugged a little, and smiled very softly.

"Good thing you have your very own groomer, isn't it?" The brush was sitting on the end table, where Duo had put it that morning, and he handed it over again now. I brushed, more languidly than I had in the morning, and for a while after, we just sat there.

My hands were unsure with the first folds of the braid. But Duo's slid back, and guided them, and by half way down the plait I was sure and steady with my rhythm—even if the clustered strands weren't nearly as nice as Duo made them.

He traced the length of it as I tied it off, and our hands bumped a little. Shyly, he smiled over his shoulder at me, and softly proclaimed, "You're the third person to braid my hair, ya know?"

The strains of some slightly more modern song wove over us, and his eyes glimmered with gentle little tears that made his dark blue eyes sparkle a bit.

I touched his cheek, and he scoffed at himself, leaning back against my shoulder and the back of the couch. And we sat there, the rain half drowning out any other sounds.

* * *

_"_Date_ you?"_

_He stares at the other man for a moment, as though trying to decipher the plot behind those words. Blue eyes, dark and normally so out of place for his Asiatic features, glimmer a little bit, and Yuy shrugs one shoulder in that generously graceful fashion of his. He picks at his rice absently._

_After a while, he murmurs, "We might as well make it an official relationship. After all, we spend so much time together, we live together—."_

_"So we're good friends." He is uncomfortable with the idea, if only because he has grown to realize his failings in anything that has to do with a romantic aspect; he has a hard enough time when the 'relationship' is non-romantic. But Yuy is watching him, so he says, "I'd make a horrid partner anyway. We'd never agree on anything. Our personalities are too alike, and we'd end up in a fist fight."_

_There is no response to that. Yuy snatches a dumpling from the plate between them, and stares at it in his chopsticks for a moment. He frowns a little._

_"Are you going to eat that?"_

_"Are you?"_

_He thinks about it for a moment, before shrugging. Yuy munches on it absently, and he watches in silence, before focusing on his wantons._

_He says, "Suppose we were in a relationship. Would this"—he waves around at the quaint ethnic restaurant—"be a date?"_

_"I suppose."_

_They are quiet, and eat their food in companionable silence. It takes him a moment, before he finally murmurs, "I haven't been with anyone since I was fourteen. I suppose it can't hurt to try something new."_


	8. Chapter Seven

_He that but once too nearly hears_

_The music of forfended spheres_

_Is thenceforth lonely, and for all_

_His days as one who treads the Wall_

_Of China, and, on this hand, sees_

_Cities and their civilities_

_And, on the other, lions._

_—Coventry Patmore's "The Victories of Love" I, 2_

**Chapter Seven**

When I began to awoke the next morning, the first thing I was very much aware of was the warm barrier at my back, slightly yielding, but strong in its force to stay where it had been placed, and for a very long moment, I thought I had been transported back to a place and time where this would have been a common waking sensation; or that perhaps I was back in the little Chinese village, and I had been drunk the night before and had picked up a strumpet or something. But my head didn't hurt, and the only strumpets in the village were women, and whatever I was leaning against was most assuredly not a women.

The brush of hair against my hip made me jolt without really opening my eyes and waking up entirely, and I remembered how wet I'd been the night before, and how Duo and I had sat on the couch for a very long time, before I had begun to dose off, and had wormed myself out from under his weight on my arm and leg. He had grabbed my sleeve, and, without even looking at me, had asked if he could sleep in the bed with me, because the couch was lumpy and had a spring that dug into his back—and then I had just pulled him off the couch and trudged him back to the bedroom with me, and had fallen asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I turned, and blinked sluggishly, until I could focus through the fog of sleep on Duo's still sleeping face. Except for the soft puff of his breath, he was utterly silent, wrapped around himself and the pillow, and a little bit around me as well.

Something compelled me, and I gently traced my fingers through his bangs, pushing them out of his shuttered eyes. He groused softly in his sleep, his hand darting out as mine began to retreat, and he tugged softly, until my hand was tucked under his chin, kept warm and safe.

He slowly gained footing in consciousness, and blinked at me slowly. For a very long time, he didn't seem aware of the way he was grasping my hand, or how he was entangled with me. When he did notice, he flinched back, and blinked owlishly at me.

I slipped out of bed, and stretched widely. When I looked back at him, he had an flush high on his cheeks, and his eyes were carefully diverted from my own. Softly, I sighed, and asked, "Would you like some breakfast?" He nodded without looking up, and I trod out of the room on quiet feet, and began the same process I had the morning before.

We were quiet, and I wasn't sure if it was for his benefit or my own. There was no mention of the afternoon we'd spent together, or the way he'd cried on my shoulder, or the fact that we'd slept in the same bed together.

He ate listlessly, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye when he wandered off to watch TV, leaving his half-eaten breakfast sitting pitifully on the counter. I stuck it in the fridge, and retired without a backwards glance into the bedroom, digging out a textbook and flipping through idly, trying to keep my mind off the unusual events.

Duo brought dinner to me, and sat, helping with the homework. I smiled, and nudged him in the shoulder a bit, telling him he should go back to school. He shrugged, explaining that, more than anything, he didn't want to 'waste his life' like that. So I just shrugged, and let the matter drop.

As I fell asleep much later with Duo's warm weight at my back, I realized I'd have to go back to Beijing soon.

* * *

"We've got a postcard from Tro'. It says, 'Miss you. Hope Fei's still there. See you both soon'. Well, isn't that just sweet?"

Duo threw the postcard onto the table with some disgust, and settled heavily into a chair, opening up the bills and quickly scanning the contents. I leaned over his shoulder, took a swig of my beer, and stated, "I think that's illegal."

"He's told all his utilities to allow my name on the bills," Duo replied softly, setting aside the water bill and opening the electric. I shrugged, and took another swig, leaning my elbows against the back of his chair. He peered at me over his shoulder, and smiled softly. "Don't you have anything _better_ to do?"

"Not really. All my homework's done. And I don't have any new books to read." I whirled a chair around and straddled it, letting my arms drape listlessly, occasionally lifting the bottle to my lips as I watched the longhaired brunet write out the checks.

"So read one of Trowa's." I shrugged.

"I've read all of those too. Some of them are mine." He looked up, and cocked a brow at me, chuckling humorlessly under his breath.

"What, don't you reread stuff?"

"Well, yes," I replied, swinging the beer bottle a little bit. "But I don't have any books with me that I like that much. They're all back in Beijing."

The phone rang. Duo jumped up, and wandered over, even as he asked, "Beijing? Is that where you've been all this time? Hello! Barton residence, this is Duo—. Oh. Hi."

The sudden dejection in his voice made me lean forward, and mouth the words to ask who it was. He rolled his eyes, covered the mouthpiece, and grumbled, "It's Yuy. Gimme a sec," before returning to the 'conversation'. "Look, he's not here. Une sent him out."

There was a stiff silence, and then Duo snarling, "I don't know! Ask Une. She won't tell you, but it's worth the shot, you stubborn ass." With the last of that, he hung up and glared at the phone for a moment, before huffing and returning to the table.

I was quiet for a very long time. Finally, I asked, "What happened there?"

"Yuy blames me for what happened with the . . . the _thing_. He says that if I'd had better control over my lover, none of it would have happened." Duo snorted. "I always have to remind him, when he says that, that there were _two_ people in that bed, and he wasn't doing a stellar job taking his own advise."

"Ah." There was nothing else to say. He looked over the amounts to be paid, and wrote the checks in silence. I drank from my beer and after a while wandered into the sitting room and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels absently.

He sat next to me this time, instead of in the chair at the other end of the couch, and leaned over his knees slightly. His voice was very quiet, singing along with some jingle on a commercial that I didn't recognize.

"I'm sorry," he murmured when the commercial was over, and leaned back. His head tilted towards my shoulder, and my arm mindlessly slipped over the back of the sofa, letting him slide in closer. I looked at him, meeting his dark blue eyes, and cocked a brow.

"What for?"

"You don't like to talk about all that stuff, right? I'm sorry." I blinked at him for a moment, before shrugging a little.

"It's alright," I assured. He watched me intently for a minute, and then focused on the show I'd stopped on—mindless, numbing half-entertainment to distract us for a comforting while. Duo was a bit more intent on it than I was, though I caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eye once or twice when the show broke for sponsors.

I blurted, at some point or another, "I have to go back to Beijing soon." Duo looked at me stupidly for a minute, before shrugging, and chuckling softly. He turned off the TV, and sprawled over the couch, his feet landing on my thighs haphazardly.

"Trowa'll be pissed if I let you leave," he grumbled, but was smiling gently from his end of the couch, his bangs falling into his eyes. "So . . . how much do I have to pay to get you to stay?"

"It's not a matter of price, Maxwell," I snapped, perhaps more cruelly than I meant to. I continued, softer: "I have classes, and friends, and a _life_ back in China. I can't just leave that behind, you understand?"

"You had that here, and you left," Duo pointed out, leaning his head back over the arm he was resting against. He chortled, a sound that was almost sad and pathetic, and shook his head a little, apologizing softly.

Suddenly, he stood, and stretched, looking down at me. "I'm kinda tired, m'kay? Mind shoving off? I'll take the couch."

"You don't—." I stopped, knew what I was about to say, and carefully sealed my lips firmly before the words could escape. Slowly, I nodded and stood, and wandered down the hall to the bedroom.

It seemed awful cold, without Duo's comfortable warmth at my back.


	9. Chapter Eight

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire,_

_I hold to those who favor fire,_

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice._

_—Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice"_

**Chapter Eight**

Brin was golden skinned and blood-red haired, with brilliantly blue eyes that sparkled in the early morning lights streaming through the airport windows. He smiled at me, embraced me in a friendly manner, and took hold of the bags I'd already grabbed before meeting up with him.

"Trowa didn't come back with you?" I stiffened a little, and shook my head. Brin shrugged a little, and darted a lock of hair out of his eyes dashingly. "Too bad. Did you have fun in America?"

"It was alright."

We rode the tram back to school, and Brin told me about his break—he'd gone back into space to visit his parents on one of the L3 colonies; his sister had given birth to twins; and his brother had brought home his 'scumbag, lowlife' boyfriend.

We laughed gently as we wound our way back to the dorm. I sighed, and flopped onto my bed, somehow overly glad for the narrow, lumpy mattress, if only because of its total benefits of solitude.

"Glad to be back?"

"You have _no_ idea." Brin laughed, and curled up onto the end of my bed. He pulled off my socks, and rubbed my feet absently, and I sighed a little, tucking my wrists under my neck and staring at our water-stained ceiling. "I met up with some people, though."

"Friends?"

"Ah . . . kind of." Brin let it drop, and hummed softly under his breath.

I asked about his new nephews, and his brother's new boyfriend, and Brin took the opportunity to willingly and avidly speak about himself and his family. For the most part, I just tuned him out and stared at the ceiling, trying to link the tiny dots.

I shouldn't have felt so horrid about having left America again. But the confused hurt was there, roiling beneath the surface, threatening to break through in some form or another.

" . . . and then we all stripped down and screwed like rabbits."

"That's ni—w_hat_?" Brin laughed and smiled, pinching the bridge of my foot harder than was probably necessary.

"If you're gonna ask me stuff, you should probably pay attention." He sat up, and sprawled over my legs, digging his elbows into my hips and cradling his chin in his palms. "What's on your mind? Trouble in . . . well, not paradise, but whatever it is in that crazy little head of yours?"

"I'm just a little confused is all." I shook my head. "You were talking about . . . Troy, is his name?"

"Tron." Brin made a gagging noise, but didn't continue his soliloquy on the matter of his brother's personal life. He was staring at me intently, his brows furrowed. Suddenly, he poked me in the upper thigh, hard enough to make me grunt and try to sneak away from the abuse. "C'mon, An. I _know_ you wanna tell me what happened in—where were you again? San Francisco?"

"Seattle."

"Right, right." He snapped his fingers absently, and jabbed me again, a bit closer to my crotch. "C'mon. Naughty little details time."

"There aren't any 'naughty little details'," I assured him, my voice laced with annoyance and unrelenting anger at the nosy redhead. Brin smiled slightly, and leaned his head against my hip. His breath ghosted over the low reaches of my stomach, and I shifted uncomfortably under him, blushing and looking away.

He laid like that for a very long time, and the day seemed to somehow slip away from us—perhaps that was my own jet lag, or perhaps we really had laid there on my dorm room bed for nearly thirteen hours, talking of nothing and everything and never really saying whatever it was that would clear the air between us, though I couldn't quite place when that air had become so clouded.

I wondered, idly, after Brin had fallen asleep like that on my leg, if Brin loved me. I wondered if that was why he put up with me, and dragged me out with him, and laughed and smiled and never bothered to have shame in front of me, always showing off, always there and comforting and knowing just what needed to be said, even if he never said it.

I wondered if Brin was my Duo now.

I wondered if Duo loved me as well.

* * *

_It is an odd thing, when Yuy appears in the doorway of his room one day, and simply watches him for a very long time. They do not speak. Yuy is bleeding, just a little bit from right above his left eyebrow, and before he can comment on it, Winner is there, all dressed out as though for some business, with a rag and a stern look, and an order to _sit_ on something._

_He moves reflexively away when Yuy chooses the easy and simple route, and sits on the end of his bed. He can't really stop _staring_ at him, and he's not sure if it's out of perverse frustration with having him sitting on the end of his bed, or perverse infatuation with the trickle of blood that has begun to stain his lightly golden brow._

_Yuy speaks when Winner leaves, very slow and quiet, in that deliberate way he has._

_"They didn't tell me that you'd be here."_

_"I was not planning on staying long." Yuy looks at him at that, and he thinks of rephrasing, but can't. Yuy is beating him to the punch, as he can remember him doing during the wars, though vaguely._

_"Are you now?"_

_He shrugs, and looks pointedly away. When Winner returns with bandages, Yuy pulls him out of the room, and shuts the door respectfully.

* * *

_

The lights of Beijing were brutal and oddly pleasant against the backdrop of dark flowers. I sat in one of the gazebos, flipping through one of the books I'd taken from Trowa's condominium, remembering dimly the passages as they sprang to sight, and the situations tied to them. Desperately, I tried to understand why I was breaking my firm resolve to move _on_ from all that I had once been and never would be again; I tried to understand why that little voice that always resided in the back of my mind had suddenly and _finally_ fallen silent.

But I didn't try to understand too badly. I didn't try to understand why it felt as though I was missing something. I watched the lights for a very long time, and then returned to my reading without a thought. The memories blossoming threatened to tear apart my stomach as I flipped each thin page slowly over to the next, awkward in the Western fashion but not unwelcome.

Brin found me, and sighed as he sat down, complaining idly of long classes. His skin was as dark as the sky around us, speckled as though with the same distant, half-seen stars that managed to penetrate the odd mid-darkness of the early evening; and he was dressed to a tee, as though prepared to go on one of his ventures into town with Lingyei or one of the other girls. I couldn't help but wonder the idle things that had sprung to heart from coming back from America—perhaps, obscure though the thought was, Brin was dressed for me.

I leaned over when Brin began to scan the page I was on, and read from it quietly, retelling a story Brin shyly admitted he had never heard before, until the night was slipping away around us, and I proclaimed I had a report I needed to finish before the term started back up again. We wandered back to the dorm, talking quietly, laughing gently, and I was smiling, just a bit.

I worked in silence, and watched from the corner of my eye as Brin bee bopped on his bed to the music playing softly from the stereo that sat on our wall, prepared to sleep, and finally switched off his light, bidding me good night. For a very long time, I sat, and watched the glaring light of Beijing's nightlife glimmer through low-slung foggy clouds after I had finished my work.

The night was cold. As I sat on the window seat, my breath fogged the glass fitfully, obscuring reflections I did not truly wish to see. Brin only half woke as I crept silently under his covers, and turned obligingly, wrapping his arms comfortingly around my waist.

I wondered what I would do, if I were given a second chance.

* * *

_At night, he dreams, and can't seem to understand why he does that. The sounds around him are raucous and horrible when he dreams—people screaming, and dying, and a hundred voices he knows and doesn't know and doesn't want to know are pleading with him, a thousand hands pulling at him, and—_

_He wakes with a start against the soft bed, and just looks around for a very long time. There are three plates of food waiting for him—he's been out for a day and a half—and his very _soul_ aches, even if he is no longer as bone-tired as he thinks he should be._

_He eats, but not well, and when it's all gone, he vomits it back up, sobbing because he hurts to be this weak, and sobbing more because it just _hurts_ now, after everything is done._

_But he can't stop. He can't turn off the nightmares and the long-sleeps and the thousand other things that consume his bored and harried life. If this were real life, he'd be dead. They keep him alive to make him pay, to make him an example, to make sure he can't come out and say what he needs to say—he was right, they were right, what they were _doing_ was right, but that doesn't matter now, when everything is spent._

_He has been a prisoner of war._

_This is far, far worse.

* * *

_

The letter had been sitting on my desk for three weeks.

I couldn't bring myself, for the longest time, to open it, and when I did, I could not sit and simply read. Or rather, I could not compel myself to face such a thing. Trowa's handwriting was swift and flowing, easy to read with his regrets that I had returned to Beijing, and a quietly written promise to come visit after he got back to America. Duo's chalkier letters wrote a note of quiet nothingness.

It took several days of avoidance before I could actually sit down and read my whole way through. I fidgeted as I did, occasionally stopping and looking about for something to distract my attention with. There was nothing. It began to rain, fitful drops splattering against the window in a growing cacophony.

I blinked sluggishly at a tinny knock at the door. Everything seemed still, even with that constant patter on the windows, and the only thing that had changed was my position, sprawled across the bed, and the hands of my watch.

Yawning, I slid from the bed, and rested against the door for a moment, pulling it slowly open. My mouth was half agape, readied for a verbose explanation from Brin as to where he'd lost his room key _this_ time.

My gaze traveled down when no such verbiage sprung forth, and I found myself staring into large golden eyes and a tan-furred face. Duo's cat mewled at me softly, and the young man himself rotated just a little, looking up at me and smiling very softly.

He stood, dusting himself off absently. His eyes were red rimmed and raw, and he absently quaked, "I didn't . . . . When you left, you said I could write. I . . . did. I just . . . fuck."

"What's going on, Duo?" I demanded as gently as I could. He looked away from me, and perhaps that was rain running down his face, but I couldn't possibly believe. I grabbed his arm, and tugged him into the room, digging out a towel as he removed his rain-soaked clothing.

"Fuck, I just didn't . . . didn't know where else to go. Quatre'd be all sympathetic, you know, and Yuy'd just kick me out on my ass, say I _deserved_ it or some shit." He swore for a moment, curling in on himself under my towel. I sat beside him, an arm cast over his shoulder and the wet smell of his hair in my nose.

Quietly, I asked, squeezing his shoulders. "What's going on? What happened?" And for a while, he just stared at me, quiet and sullen. That was not rain dripping from his eyes when he bent his head, though, and I knew. My arms found their way around him gently, and he was sobbing uncontrollably into my shoulder, clutching at my shirt and wetting my chest with his damp body.

I had not seen him cry like that before, and I shook in my rapture of the moment, stroking my hands slowly down his back. He was inconsolable for some time, until his incomprehensible words slowly morphed back to sounds that one could naturally understand.

"It's Trowa," he gasped through his continued sobs. I stared at him stupidly for a moment, and he finally hissed, more anger directed obviously towards himself than anywhere else; "Trowa . . . he's fucking _dead_. And I . . . I didn't have anywhere else to go . . ."


	10. Chapter Nine

_Loneliness awakens in the darkness_

_An endless journey_

_Maybe we'd meet again one day,_

_Unforgettable wounds still hurting _

_Every time I turn around_

_I hold in these hands the answers_

_Seems like my shadow's looking down at me _

_—from Ishino Ryuzo's "Let Into Top" (translation)_

**Chapter Nine**

_Duo looked across at Trowa, and tried desperately to formulate an appropriate answer to such a proclamation as had just been made. After a while, he chuckled slightly, and smiled, tipping his wine glass gently towards his lover._

_"Well, good for you. Who is it?"_

_"Noone of terrible importance." The avoidance of that statement made Duo shake his head and sip at his wine. He nibbled at his chicken, and swallowed heavily, simply trying to understand the entire thing._

_It was a common and even thing, between the both of them, that their 'relationship', as it was, was completely open-ended. Such as it had been when they had entered into their rapport after the first war had ended—Trowa had come into the pairing with some ingrained, intuitive knowledge that he would never wholly hold Duo's heart and love, and had resigned himself most respectfully._

_"Will he treat you well?"_

_"I don't know. He's . . . a bit difficult to talk to sometimes. I get nervous." He was blushing gently, picking at his rice and laughing at his own weakness. Duo smiled, and reached across the table, caressing his lover's cheek gently._

_"I suppose it's only fair that our agreement extend to you as well? I'd be a bit of a bastard if I didn't, wouldn't I?" Trowa only chuckled gently._

_The arrangement was a simple enough thing, to go with their simple enough situation: they knew that they would never be the other's faithful partner, and so they had decided that, should they come upon someone whom they truly believed that deeply loved, they would tell the others, and remind their partner before _anything_ happened that they were in such an open ended relationship. And if anything came of something, then they would go their ways._

_They had yet to go their ways yet, and for that, Duo was slightly thankful._

_"Do I know him?" The pressing questions had never been asked of him, when he'd taken up with someone. Trowa smiled genially, and sipped his wine. Duo poured them both a refresher, and leaned back in his chair; his feet tapped at Trowa's shin, and there was no shame in him removing his stylish boots and running his socked foot up the inside of his lover's calve._

_"Yes," Trowa responded simply, and picked at the chicken. They fell into a peacefully heavy silence; after a while, Trowa softly murmured, "God, I wish I knew how to talk to him."_

_"I suppose my approach of bad pick-up lines is out?"_

_"Most _definitely_," Trowa laughed, his eyes bright and shining. "He'd run away rather than listen."_

_"So just talk to him."

* * *

_

_"You both seem happy together."_

_Duo looked over at Wu Fei, and cocked a brow, before looking over at Trowa. He smiled slightly, and shrugged, watching the tall man perform a rather amazing handstand and then dive spectacularly into the pool._

_"I suppose we are. It's nice to come home to, at least." Wu Fei nodded a little. Duo watched him intently out of the corner of his eyes, trying to understand the cryptic look._

_Finally, he kicked him in the back of the knees, grinning when the dark Asian swore and glared up at him. He gently asked, "Why aren't you out there swimming with him? I know you want to." The accusation was meant as a joke, but Wu Fei was flushing softly nonetheless, looking swiftly and pointedly away._

_He'd been noticing that more and more, admittedly. Trowa had been a bit more distant in his advances and acceptance of the same; the two of them were almost painfully careful never to be left alone together for any substantial amount of time; and Heero had mentioned something in passing, more to Quatre than to Duo, that his relationship with Wu Fei had become strained at best._

_He hated to think that Wu Fei was cheating on Heero, more out of fear for Wu Fei's well being than anything else. Of course, he knew Wu Fei was more than capable of taking care of himself. Still. He had seen Heero at his peak during the war, when he'd set bones without even something to grit his teeth against, and had blown himself sky high more than once. There was no doubt in his mind that Wu Fei, if he chose such a dangerous route, would not come out unscathed._

_"Hey," he murmured, leaning back a little and crossing his ankles. Wu Fei looked over at him, cocking a brow slightly and darting his loose hair out of his eyes. "You know Heero really likes you a lot, right?"_

_"Ah . . . yes, I know that." That flush was back, and Duo didn't doubt the shame and guilt in it now. He smiled slightly, and patted his friend's thigh, trying to ignore the thrill that went up his arm and down his spine._

_He didn't want to be on the receiving end of _any_ anger, be it from Wu Fei _or_ Heero._

_"Just . . . . He really likes you." Duo couldn't bring himself to blurt out the obvious statement there, and hoped Wu Fei picked up on the 'don't break his heart!' that sat heavy at the end of that sentence.

* * *

_

_Trowa was glad Duo was out, for once. Wu Fei was slow, silent opening and closing the door, standing against the heavy wood as though afraid that moving would awaken some rabid beast. He smiled at his secret lover, and turned down the covers a bit, beckoning the younger man closer and into his bed._

_Wu Fei kissed like he was drowning, and Trowa was more than willing to grapple with the intensity of that hunger, feeding it easily. His fingers tripped delicately over soft caramel skin, and he frowned just a little to feel ribs and hip-bones, and then the bulge of his spine. But Wu Fei effectively distracted him from any observation he would make, stripping away their clothing and sprawling in such a wanton fashion that Trowa could not help but be drawn._

_Afterwards, he showered under scalding hot water, and tried to wrestle with the guilt that was chewing away at his chest. Wu Fei, of course, knew about Duo and his relationship. But he had not fulfilled the agreement, though doubtless Duo _knew_ by now; he wasn't stupid. Still, he knew he should have told Duo when he'd slept with Wu Fei that first time, months ago._

_The guilt did not leave him, but quieted, when Wu Fei slipped into the shower as well. He was humming softly along with the radio, and Trowa sang pleasantly to earn a small smile from the drowsy Asian._

_They were damp as they fell into the bed together. Trowa was glad Duo was out, for once._

_For a very long time, they lay still and quiet, until Wu Fei quietly asked, "I need to break it off with Heero."_

_"Why?" Trowa asked gently, stroking his face and darting dark hair out of dark eyes. Wu Fei sighed, and leaned into the gentle caress._

_"I can't go on like this, you know? It isn't right. He . . . he deserves better." Trowa smiled very softly, and leaned down, kissing Wu Fei despite the tiny voice in his gut that was telling him what an idiot he was. Wu Fei kissed like he was drowning, and he grappled with that intensity willingly, allowing himself to be dominated._

_"He has the best," he finally replied, some time later. Wu Fei nuzzled his neck, and didn't say a single thing.

* * *

_

_Little Asia was pleasantly bustling with energy. Wu Fei was hanging out in the back, talking quietly with Heero, and Duo couldn't help but worry over the tension in the older young man's shoulders, watching the way his fists clenched and unclenched arrhythmically._

_Surely, if anyone knew who Wu Fei was sleeping with besides him, Heero would. Surely, Wu Fei was not so stupid as to think he'd duped his boyfriend with some easy lies and perhaps some offer of one favor or another. Duo did not doubt the favors were frequent now, dubious, harsh._

_He'd heard their confrontations. No one would think two men as quiet as them would be quite so _loud_, but Duo believed now._

_Heero hadn't fought that much with Quatre when they'd gone their separate ways. Duo could count the number of times Heero and Quatre had fought on one hand; the verbal battles between Heero and Wu Fei were swiftly growing into the innumerable numbers of a full-scale war. He only hoped their little group outing would dissolve some of the tension._

_It didn't._

_In Uwajimaya, browsing through the bookstore on the northern corner of the shopping center, Duo became distinctly aware of the sound of their newest ensuing argument. He didn't stop to wonder what the problem was this time, didn't wonder what had 'triggered' the outburst this time; he only knew that Wu Fei was snapping some mix of several languages, and they all sounded like swears to him._

_He put down the book he'd taken up, and hurried up to the second floor to see them snarling at each other over the space of a compact-disk. With a sigh, he strode over, grabbing Heero's elbow, and tugging his attention away from the smaller man._

_"Cut it out," he hissed, "or truck your ass back to the apartment. I'm not gonna put up with both of your shit today."_

_"Mind your own business, Maxwell," Heero snarled, wrenching his arm away. He stomped away angrily, shoving his way through the assembled crowd._

_Duo consolingly approached Wu Fei, ready with some apology for a problem not his own. The young Asian flinched away, his arms wrapped around himself as if to hold himself in. He stepped around Duo, and tore his arm away when he grabbed it._

_"I don't need your help. I don't need your help."

* * *

_

_He didn't say anything for a very long time, just stared at Trowa incredulously. They could hear the angry voices of Heero and Wu Fei, drowning out whatever they might have thought of saying. But they didn't speak._

_Trowa hadn't bothered to dress. He sat in his dressing robe, his legs carefully canted and tucked to protect whatever propriety he had left. The sight of that seemed to be the finally straw—Trowa had no right or privilege to act like he had propriety left._

_"How _could_ you?"_

_"It's an open ended—."_

_"That's not what I meant, Trowa Barton, and you fucking _know it_." His eyes were blazing, and he stood, towering over his lover. He grabbed the shoulders of Trowa's robe, tugged him a little, until his legs splayed and he looked more like the wanton whore he should have, if the angry voice in the back of Duo's head had any sense of righteousness. "How could you not tell me?"_

_"I tried to," Trowa attempted. Duo scoffed, let his hands drop away._

_Trowa did not cant and tuck his legs. He was still hard, though his erection had wilted. Duo looked away, choked on a sob, and swore violently under his breath._

_"He knew I was with you. We were both consenting. I know I didn't tell you, but—."_

_"Damnit, Trowa," Duo growled, running his fingers fitfully through his hair. Finally, he looked back up, and shook his head. "I loved him too."_


	11. Chapter Ten

_I have eaten_

_the plums_

_that were in_

_the icebox_

_and which_

_you were probably_

_saving_

_for breakfast_

_Forgive me_

_they were delicious_

_so sweet_

_and so cold._

_—William Carlos William's "This Is Just to Say"_

**Chapter Ten**

_He looks around slowly, his arms crossed over his chest, and takes in the sight of the bay and the people milling on the street below, and the sharp yet pleasant smell of car exhaust and perhaps just a bit of fishy smell that stings his nose. Maxwell works the lock as though unsure of the key, and swears just a little, until he finally gets it open._

_"C'mon in," he commands, and he does as he is told, though somewhat begrudgingly. "Tro' and Quat' won't be back for a little while, I think; they went out shopping. Can I get you something to drink?"_

_"I am fine, thank you." He doesn't want to thank Maxwell, doesn't want to be in his presence, doesn't want to be looking around the large condominium's front room when he should, rightly, be where he just was._

_He asks quietly, "Why am I here?"_

_Maxwell ducks out of the kitchen, and cocks a brow in confusion. His smile is bright and smart and generous on his thin lips, and he frowns a little at the expression, repeating himself: "Why am I here?"_

_"You want me to take you back? I'm sure the bail hasn't been filed all the way down the chain." He thinks about it a moment, and then shakes his head. Maxwell smiles, and reaches out, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing gently; he almost flinches away and smacks the other youth._

_But Maxwell just keeps smiling gently, and then pulls away when the door opens. He hurries down the steps to 'help', he assumes, and leaves Winner standing in the doorway staring at him, large blue eyes startled and his bag of groceries slipping from his grip._

_He grabs them before they fall, and takes them into the kitchen, Winner following him as though he is a figment of his greater dreams, and he carefully doesn't look at those pale blue eyes, because he knows what that would do._

_But then Barton is there too, and Maxwell is just smiling, just being proud of himself, because he somehow succeeded, or something. And he can do nothing to fend off or dissuade the homecoming they give to him, as though he were some estranged relation._

_He tries to enjoy it. And fails.

* * *

_

Brin wasn't all that surprised, I found, when he came in much later and found me laying in bed with Duo wrapped in my arms, soundly asleep and naked except for the towel haphazardly draped over his long, lean body. He smiled a little, and sat on his bed, flopping back and simply watching us both for a very long time.

When he did finally speak, it was of simple enough things. "This a friend of yours?"

I hesitated for a second, trying to figure just what Duo was to me, before nodding a little, then more firmly. "From the war," I offered by way of a simple explanation. Brin nodded as well, and then sat up, leaning over his knees and cradling his chin in his palms as he watched Duo for a moment. My arms instinctively tightened around the longhaired brunet, and he made an odd little sound in the back of his throat.

He blinked himself awake, first at my chest, and then my face, and then over his shoulder at Brin, who smiled very softly. There was a tired, watery little smile in return, and then he did that full-body stretch that I had made synonymous with Trowa—but perhaps that made some sense; Trowa probably taught it to Duo, for those long days and nights when there was no need or want to leave the close comfort of a soft bed and warm caress.

"You a friend of 'Fei's?" I blushed darkly as Brin blinked, and looked up at me in confusion. Duo swore under his breath, and shook his head, rubbing his face. "Sorry. Sorry, I just . . ."

"It's alright, Duo," I excused, before anybody could continue to muddle the confusion. I waved absently at Brin, and performed cordial introductions. Duo reached across the space between our beds with his left, holding the slightly damp towel more wholly over his body with the right as he shook hands with my roommate.

"How long have you guys known each other? Just since the war?" I nodded swiftly. Duo was nestling absently against my ribs in a manner most distracting, and had turned onto his other side to better face Brin. It took a great deal of self-control—control I hadn't known I'd need around the older man—not to tell Brin to leave and see where things led.

That vengeful little voice was back, snarling of what happened when I became emotionally entangled with _any_one. They died, be it soon after or far in the future, and my wayward conscience sought it necessary to remind me that I didn't need another death on my hands.

I had missed Brin's question, but Duo was answering quietly. Appearently, something about why he was here. It was a simple story, nothing too complicated or telling of the situation. Brin apologized for our loss, and asked if we'd like to be left alone for a while to sort things out amongst ourselves.

I had seen that twinkle in his eyes before, more than once, when he'd managed to get me to do something particularly stupid. My arms tightened around Duo again, and I thanked him for his understanding, nodding discretely towards the door and frowning at him darkly. With my luck, it would be around campus in an hour, that I had an attractive young American stranger in my dorm.

"'Fei . . . you can let go now. I can't breath." I jumped, released Duo and managed to get off the bed without trampling all over him. He yawned, and flopped against my pillow in mild dejection. The towel shifted over him slightly, and I tried desperately to retain that small iota of self-control that I had cultivated. What sort of freak was I, anyway? Here, on my bed, lay a man whom I had fought with and against; a man whose lover I had taken into my bed behind my own partner's back; a man who, until very recently it seemed, had had every wish in the world to have my head. And I was trying my damnedest not to take advantage of him in the midst of his anguish at losing a friend and former lover? Surely I was mad.

He was watching me with half slatted eyes, and sat up slowly, until he was barely covered and draped over his raised knee. I looked away, fidgeting absently and nearly searching for some way out.

All of a sudden, he was laughing raucously, and I was looking at him. He flopped back against the pillows, covering his face as he laughed and his shoulders heaved. And slowly, he dissolved into sobs. Holding his hands high above him, staring at his palms, he began to speak slowly.

It took me some great, long stretch of time before what he was saying began to sink in, like I was hearing some ancient fable and translating it far slower than he was speaking. I was lagging in his dialog, in his story of two young men who had tried so desperately for the same youth without knowing it, and how the one had so hated them both, because he had not been fast enough or bright enough or _there_ to catch and take what he wanted.

It took me a great, long stretch of time before my sluggish brain registered: _me. He's talking about him and Trowa and _me

He was watching me closely at the end, tears rolling sluggishly from his dark eyes, and I gaped, pawing desperately for words that refused to come. Finally, he laughed again, and covered his face, turning his back to me.

"That was stupid of me, wasn't it?" he asked, and I could hear the tears on his voice. There was nothing I could say though, really. Slowly, I approached the bed, and slid in behind him. My arm draped slowly over his waist, and my arm ghosted sluggishly up his torso, until it rested over his heart. He sighed, and leaned back against me, turning a little to look at me from the corner of his eye.

"What do you want me to say to that, Duo?" I pondered, my fingers idling. He shrugged a little, his eyes slipping closed and his weight resting comfortably against me.

"I'd like something, at least. For you to be mad that we were doing such a thing, or to finally understand why I was so upset."

"I don't want to understand that, though," I gritted, feeling the tears in my eyes as well. I swore, in Spacer and Mandarin and English, and finally ground out, "I don't want to _be_ _him_ any more."

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, almost incredulous, and let out a watery laugh that turned into a barking sob. Slowly, he shook his head. I didn't know why he was crying, or why he was suddenly sitting on my hips, hitting my chest and shouting at me unintelligibly. I simply lay there, prostrate and still, waiting for his anger or resentment or _whatever_ to abate.

Finally, he simply collapsed against me, sobbing into my shoulder. I lifted my hand slowly, stroking it along his ribcage and murmuring softly, trying to sooth him. Words would slip through—curses and reprimands and things he didn't really mean, I knew, but which sounded like perfectly reasonable things to us both at the time.

He pulled away a little, just far enough to meet my eyes, and stared at me for what felt like ages before he finally kissed me. I did not fight, nor respond, except to wrap my arms gently around his waist as I felt his tears wet my cheeks. When he stopped kissing me, he choked on his sobs, and hit me in the chest and shoulders, again and again, until _finally_ I grunted from the pain.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he barked, all cold and distant and haughty, grabbing my shirt and manhandling me up into a sitting position, so he was towering over me in my lap. He kissed me again, almost desperate, and demanded when he broke, "Are you even _human_?"

"You're upset," I observed, shaking my head. He laughed incredulously, shaking me by the shirt a little. The tears on his face were brilliant and nearly handsome, in some obscure way. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head, his hands slowly loosening from my shirt.

He shoved me back down on the bed, and just stared at me from his perch on my hips, shaking his head a little, as though not quite understanding the distance I had placed between us. But I _had_ to, I told myself; above all things, I could not do this, not after I had worked so hard to leave everything behind. Not after forcing myself to become something and someone new.

He kissed me again, more tenderly, and I wiped the tears from his face as he sobbed and pulled back to gasp for air. There was something in me that told me to snatch love up by the wings, to take it where I had found it—Duo had, after all, waited many years to work up the courage and ability to tell me, that was an honorable and respectable thing. But my greater self was forceful in its resolve, and I lay passive to him, until he crawled off me, and went about, looking for his clothing.

"They're in the laundry," I uttered from the bed, and tried to ignore that I was painfully attracted to the sight Duo was, stark nude and tear-flushed in the middle of my room. He nodded a little, and shrugged one shoulder. "I'll ask Brin to get them for you. Would you like to sleep for a little while longer?"

"That . . . would be nice, thank you." His voice was stiff now. He waited until I was nearly to the door to slip into the bed, crawling under my covers and curling onto himself on some invisible fulcrum, his back pointedly towards me. I tried to convince myself; _this is the right thing you're doing, you know. You are saving yourself. You are saving _him

He stayed for three more days, ironically holed away in the apartment Trowa had rented for his stay in Beijing, and I did not see him, until he arrived at the door of my dorm once again, swaying slightly and looking like he'd stood under a waterfall for a few hours. I opened the door, and did not speak, only digging out a towel and trying not to look at him as he stripped and sat on my bed to dry himself off.

"You're going to kill yourself one of these days," I reprimanded. He shrugged.

"I had to think," he offered halfheartedly, toweling at his head after unraveling his braid. I handed him a pair of boxers to hide his meager decency, and rummaged through my things to find a brush to work with his tangled hair as he simply wrapped himself in the damp towel.

I stole it away, and handed him my dressing robe as I sat behind him, pulling his hair back and beginning to rake through it slowly. We did not speak, nor make any sound at all. The sound of rain on the windows was loud and heavy in our silence, but well forgiven; it distracted us both from whatever might be on our minds.

As I ran my fingers through his long tresses and began to set about braiding them, he stilled me, and turned a little. I knew, without looking at him, what the look in his eyes would be. So I closed my own long before he lifted my chin, and bent me slowly to a will I was not entirely adverse to.

The rain crashed against the windows, sending obscure patterns across the plush carpet, drowning out all sound to leave behind that repetitive cacophony.

It was no big thing to offer myself up to the brunet, smiling and breathless and just that little bit shy as I ran my fingers through thick, dark chestnut strands and tugged a bit, my eyes squeezing shut as Duo did his damnedest to make me forget my trepidations. I simpered quietly, keened a little, moved against that fullness as Duo murmured nonsense into my ears, kissed me, touched me as I could not remember being touched in quite some time.

But when it was over, and we lay in the silence that was interrupted only by the crashing sound of rain, I was not surprised by the unease in my gut. Duo seemed to know, and smiled slightly, leaning over and kissing me gently.

"You'll write, won't you?" I nodded, and he did as well. He dug through my things, found some things that were Trowa's and dressed in those, and I watched him idly.

Some small part of me told me what a fool I was. I did not doubt it.

"Duo," I blurted, just as he was opening the door. He stopped as I sat up, draping over my knees a little. "If . . . if Trowa hadn't gotten to me first. And if Heero hadn't been a problem. Do you think . . . ?"

"I try not to, now," he admitted, tracing a line on the door, shrugging a little. I nodded.

"Of course."

"I'll see you around, An." And with that, he stepped through the door, and left me to the sounds of rain on the windows.


	12. Epilogue

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

_—excerpt T. S Eliot's "The Hollow Men"_

**Epilogue**

I could hear, if I listened hard enough, the sound of roosters crowing from tin roofs around the village. Sharp and shrill and far too early for my tastes, but I didn't have to listen. It was an easy stretch to the open window, and shutting it would mean the sounds of the waking world would fall completely away for perhaps an hour or two. At least until the proprietor of the rest-home came and woke me. But shutting the window would wake me; and if not that, then the growing heat would. I didn't wish to wake up, and I wasn't listening hard enough to hear the damn birds yet, anyway.

As I lay, half awake in the already stifling rural heat, I wondered how long it had been. Time was lethargic in this area, like honey that had sat in the refrigerator long enough to become highly viscous, but not quite a complete lump. That was the wrong analogy; time was just different here than it had been in the real world; and sometimes it seemed like the village was caught in a time capsule that displaced it to the mid-nineteen hundreds, or perhaps early. I hadn't really thought much of that.

If I woke up now, I could help the proprietor's daughter in town. She was a sweet girl, though that grated on my nerves, and not terribly bright, but her face and bright eyes reminded me imploringly of my wife, and that in turn reminded me why I was here: some ill-begotten idea of forgiveness and guilt that had driven me from the people and things I had once loved.

Here, where the girls reminded me of my wife, and the elders reminded me of my destroyed colony, it seemed the wars had never touched. As if the village and surrounding countryside for several hundred kilometers had been frozen after the Chinese Communist movement. Time was _off_. But it was a good lethargy that had captured it. That had captured me.

If I woke up now, I could read another chapter or two of the book I had kept before the proprietor asked me to get up, asked if I would be staying another week in his tiny attic room, where the breeze barely filtered in the morning, and the rooster crows were the loudest as the sun breached the horizon.

I shut the window, and tried to reclaim my dream. It had been pleasant. Warm and soft and gentle. I didn't want to remember the dreams I had, most nights.

The room was already a good ten degrees warmer than it had been. Was it really that hot already? I threw off the blankets covering my nude frame without really comprehending what I was doing, still lost in trying to redeem the dream I'd been having before the roosters had decided to pull me from my slumber.

It couldn't be that hot, I decided; it was only March, if I remembered right. But then, with time moving the way it tended to in the sleepy little village I'd emigrated to, it must have been summer already. And besides: if it were March, I'd be in Beijing, not this tiny little town; I'd be away at college.

I woke a bit more at the soft knock on my door. The proprietor never knocked softly. Normally, he'd slam his fist on the door a couple times until I threw the door open and cursed the old man; we would exchange coarse morning pleasantries; I would dress, and go into town to do whatever work I could. But this soft knocking; I turned my head and watched the door slowly open, watched the proprietor's daughter walk in and stare at my slightly upturned face and barely opened eyes.

I was aware of my nudity, and only turned away quietly when she muttered an apology. As her perambulating regrets continued, I sighed, told her to leave me alone, and turned onto my stomach, hopefully saving myself from the wrath that her father would no doubt bestow if she didn't shut the door and simply turn around and forget what she'd seen.

It was discomforting, to put it lightly, the idea that she would be staring at my body at all. After nearly five years with little privacy concerning my body, I'd given up hopes of retaining that privacy. Until I'd come to the village, I'd never really had to worry about modesty concerning my body; I'd been around men and other boys for most of my life.

My eyes sliding shut, I could see the almost appreciative blush that had adorned the girl's cheeks. It made me snarl venomously into my pillow, and curse the girl for opening my door before I'd consented to it.

My wife had given me that look. Once, and only once. On our wedding night. I'd never slept with her again. Not with any woman. She had cried too hard when I had left the bed; and it had sickened me.

But that was at least seven years spent now. Slowly, I pushed myself erect, and set about dressing, despite that fact that I was still very much asleep on the inside. My body pleaded with me for more rest, but the heat of the kitchen beneath my room and the general torridness of the late morning was making my rented attic room nigh on unbearable. If I didn't leave now, I'd cook in my own meandering thoughts, and likely never leave the room again; it was not such a regretful thought.

While the sight of the proprietor's daughter's blush danced behind my eyelids, and the thought of my wife's wedding night tears plagued my mind, my feet carried me down the stairs to the small sitting room where the proprietor sat with his two sons and meek, stupid daughter. The smell of fish and rice and vegetables wafted from the kitchen where the proprietor's wife and mother cooked swiftly, moving with an effortless grace that brought more memories to me than I carried to note.

The proprietor spoke of simple morning things from the village with his sons, and deigned not to acknowledge me until the news turned to something that seemed right to tell. A strange man wandering the village, asking about for a young man named Chang Wu Fei.

I didn't even flinch, didn't so much as shift my body weight. I asked what the man looked like, and drank my tea as the proprietor described the man—tall, lean, appraising. Caucasian, with an untrustworthy face.

The rice and vegetables were bland, and the fish was overcooked. I ate until I was full, excused myself from the meal, and left the house without a word.

If I listened just hard enough, I could hear the echoes of gunfire from his past.

It didn't take me too terribly long to explain to my employer at the factory that I would not be coming back next summer, or for the rest of this one. He was regretful, thanked me for my work on the line, and paid my wages for the day, before bowing me out the door. The village was warm that day, with a gentle breeze running through the streets. I adjourned quietly to the river on the north side of the down, and stood on the dock there.

As I stood, silent and appraising of the valley around me, I released my hair from the tight tail I kept it in, and shook it out, running my fingers through the long locks. After everything, I had let it grow some, not so restricted in the idea of changing the outside; for all anyone else saw was just another rural Chinese boy, sporting scars from a war he didn't like to talk about.

Without conscious thought, I sank to my knees, and bowed until my forehead touched the floor of the dock. Slowly, I straightened, settling my weight onto my crossed ankles as I looked up at the sky, and figured my location as roughly as could, until I could vaguely perceive a cluster of brilliant light against the spectrum blue: the L5 cluster.

I did not pray, but thanks my wife and my ancestors for all they had shown me and given me. By then, I could hear the heavy stride behind me on the gravel path. For a very long time, I stayed like that, bowed over my knees and silent, until the creak of wood made me turn.

There was no expression on our faces. He wasn't alone. After a while, I sighed, and stood, and nodded very slightly, stepping towards him. He scowled a little, and grabbed my elbow, pulling me close as he wrapped an arm around my shoulder. Into my ear, he grumbled, "You promised to write me."

"That I did," I whispered back. His grip was painful. Their eyes were riveted on me as well. "You brought—."

"He insisted. I didn't really have much choice." Then he pulled away, smiling slightly, darting thick bangs out of dark blue eyes. His smile faltered a little, and his hand raised slowly, raking through my loose hair and pinning the locks up and out of my eyes. I smiled softly, and fell willingly into his arms.

* * *

_"Hey, Chang!"_

_He looks up from the cot, not really expecting anything spectacular. But there is something in that voice, something in that deep timbre that tells him to look._

_The jokester grin and nearly violet eyes haunt his dreams some nights, and now make him wonder. But the words are purely real and true._

_"I've got a proposition for you."_


End file.
